UNIVERSITY  of  CALI 
AT 


4>^ 


v^ 


■]il!AU''ii!:  iillli'  JIJBii 


"she  beheld  the  object  of  hf.r  search  sitting  on  the 

HORIZONTAL    BOUGH    OF   A    CEDAR."  [S«  paj?.  24.] 


0  q/'V)  o/~\p  o/'V'  o/*"\p  o 


A  GROUP  OF 

NOBLE   DAMES 

BY  THOMAS  HARDY 

I 

THAT    13    TO    SAY 


THE   FIRST  COUNTESS    OF  WESSEX,  BARBARA    OF  THE 

HOUSE  OF  GREBE,  THE   MARCHIONESS    OF  STONE- 

HENGE,      LADY       MOTTISFONT,      THE        LADY 

ICENWAY,      StIUIRE       PETRICK's       LADY, 

ANNA,      LADY      BAXBY,     THE      LADY 

PENKLOPE,      the       DUCHESS      OF 

UAMPTONSHIRE,     AND 

THE         HONORABLE 

LAURA 

"...STORE   OF  L.i  DIES,  WHOSE   BRIGHT  EYES   RAIN   IN- 
flUENCE."—L'ALLii<i&o 


''It 


ILLUSTRATED 


fe^ftJ^ 


NHW    YORK 
HARPER       AND      BROTHERS 


'  J  J   J 


ilDCCCXCI 


294oU 


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«.«<■<.        s         , 

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«  ••  • 
•  •  •  • 


Books  by 
THOMAS  HARDY 


Under  the  Greenwood  Tree     Crown  8vo     . 
Desperate  Remedies      Crown  8vo.     Map 
A  Laodicean.     Crown  8vo      Map 
Far  FROM  THE  Madding  Crowd.  Cr.  8vo.    Map 
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The  Woodlanders.     Crown  8vo      .     .     . 
The  Hand  of  Ethelberta.    Cr   8vo.    Map 
The  Trumpet  Major.     Crown  8vo.     Map 
The  Return  of  the  Native.    Cr.  8vo.    Map 
Wessex  Tales.     Crown  8vo.     Map 
JuDE  the  Obscure      Crown  8vo  .     . 

The  Well-Beloved.     Crown  8vo.     Map 
Life's  Little  Ironies      Crown  8vo     . 
A  Group  OF  Noble  Dames,    lll'd.    i2mo     . 

Fellow-Townsmen.     32010 

Wessex  Poems      First  Series     Crown  8vo 
Wessex  Poems.  Second  Series.  Crown  8vo,  net 


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HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS,  N.  Y. 


Copyright,  1891,  by  Harpkr  &  Brothers. 

PRINTED    IN     THE     UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 
E-O 


'^-^H  . 

[■"^5  0 

G-9l 

CONTENTS, 


PAGE 

THE  FIRST  COUNTESS  OF  WESSEX  ...  1 
BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE  .  .  69 
THE  MARCHIONESS  OF  STONEHENGE     .     .  121 

LADY  MOTTISFONT 144 

THE  LADY  ICENWAY 173 

SQUIRE  PETRICK'S  LADY 191 

ANNA,  LADY  BAXBY 207 

THE  LADY  PENELOPE 218 

THE  DUCHESS  OF  HAMPTONSHIRE  .  .  .234 
THE  HONORABLE  LAURA 256 


'A 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


"She  Beheld  the  Object  of  Her  Search 
Seated  on  a  Horizontal  Bough  of 

Cedar" Frontispiece 

Falls  Park Facing  p.    6 

At  the  Sow  and  Acorn Page     15 

"He    Rode    Away    in    the    Direction    of 

Bristol" Facing  p.  34 

The  Drive — King's-Hintock  Park     ...       "       44 


part  ir, 

BEFORE   DINNER. 


DAME   THE   FIRST. 


BY  THE  LOCAL  HISTORIAN. 


ING'S-IIINTOCK  COURT  (said  the 
narrator,  turning  over  his  raerao- 
rancla  for  reference) — King's-Hintock 
Court  is,  as  we  know,  one  of  the  most 
imposing  of  the  mansions  tliat  overlook  our  beau- 
tiful Blackmoor,  or  Blakeraore,  Vale.  On  the  par- 
ticular occasion  of  which  I  have  to  speak  this 
building  stood,  as  it  had  often  stood  before,  in 
1 


2  A    GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

the  perfect  silence  of  a  calm  clear  night,  lighted 
only  by  the  cold  shine  of  the  stars.  The  season 
was  winter,  in  days  long  ago,  the  last  century 
having  run  but  little  more  than  a  third  of  its 
length.  North,  south,  and  west  not  a  casement 
was  unfastened,  not  a  curtain  undrawn ;  eastward, 
one  window  on  the  upper  floor  was  open,  and  a 
girl  of  twelve  or  thirteen  was  leaning  over  the 
sill.  That  she  had  not  taken  up  the  position  for 
purposes  of  observation  was  apparent  at  a  glance, 
for  she  kept  her  eyes  covered  with  her  hands. 

The  room  occupied  by  the  girl  was  an  inner  one 
of  a  suite,  to  be  reached  only  by  passing  through 
a  large  bedchamber  adjoining.  From  this  apart- 
ment voices  in  altercation  were  audible,  every- 
thing else  in  the  building  being  so  still.  It  was 
to  avoid  listening  to  these  voices  that  the  girl  had 
left  her  little  cot,  thrown  a  cloak  round  her  head 
and  shoulders,  and  stretched  into  the  night  air. 

But  she  could  not  escape  the  conversation,  try 
as  she  would.  The  words  reached  her  in  all  their 
painfulness,  one  sentence  in  masculine  tones,  those 
of  her  father,  being  repeated  many  times. 

"  I  tell  'ee  there  shall  be  no  such  betrothal !  I 
tell  'ee  there  sha'n't.     A  child  like  her  !" 

She  knew  the  subject  of  dispute  to  be  herself. 
A  cool  feminine  voice,  her  mother's,  replied : 

"Have  done  with  you,  and  be  wise.  He  is 
willing  to  wait  a  good  five  or  six  years  before  the 
marriage  takes  place,  and  there's  not  a  man  in 
the  county  to  compare  with  him." 


THE    FIRST   COUNTESS    OF  WESSEX.  3 

"  It  shall  not  be.  He  is  over  thirty.  It  is 
wickedness." 

"  He  is  just  thirty,  and  the  best  and  finest  man 
alive — a  perfect  match  for  her." 

"  He  is  poor." 

"But  his  father  and  elder  brothers  are  made 
much  of  at  Court — none  so  constantly  at  the  pal- 
ace as  they ;  and  with  her  fortune,  who  knows  ? 
He  may  be  able  to  get  a  barony." 

"  I  believe  you  are  in  love  with  en  yourself!" 

"  How  can  you  insult  me  so,  Thomas !  And  is 
it  not  monstrous  for  you  to  talk  of  my  wicked- 
ness when  you  have  a  like  scheme  in  your  own 
head  ?  You  know  you  have.  Some  bumpkin  of 
your  own  choosing — some  petty  gentleman  who 
lives  down  at  that  outlandish  place  of  yours. 
Falls  -Park — one  of  your  pot-companions'  sons — " 

There  was  an  outburst  of  imprecation  on  the 
part  of  her  husband  in  lieu  of  further  argument. 
As  soon  as  he  could  utter  a  connected  sentence 
he  said :  "  You  crow  and  you  domineer,  mistress, 
because  you  are  heiress-general  here.  You  are  in 
your  own  house  ;  you  are  on  your  own  land. 
But  let  me  tell  'ee  that  if  I  did  come  here  to  you 
instead  of  taking  you  to  me,  it  was  done  at  the 
dictates  of  convenience  merely.  H — ,  I'm  no 
beggar  !  Ha'n't  I  a  place  of  my  own  ?  Ha'n't  I 
an  avenue  as  long  as  thine?  Ha'n't  I  beeches 
that  will  more  than  match  thy  oaks  ?  I  should 
have  lived  in  my  own  quiet  house  and  land,  con- 
tented, if  you  had  not  called  me  off  with  your 


4  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

airs  and  graces.  Faith,  I'll  go  back  there ; 
I'll  not  stay  with  thee  longer  !  If  it  had  not 
been  for  our  Betty  I  should  have  gone  long 
ago  !" 

After  this  there  were  no  more  words  ;  but  pres- 
ently, hearing  the  sound  of  a  door  opening  and 
shutting  below,  the  girl  again  looked  from  the 
window.  Footsteps  crunched  on  the  gravel- walk, 
and  a  shape  in  a  drab  great -coat,  easily  distin- 
guishable as  her  father,  withdrew  from  the  house. 
He  moved  to  the  left,  and  she  watched  him  di- 
minish down  the  long  east  front  till  he  had  turned 
the  corner  and  vanished.  He  must  have  gone 
round  to  the  stables. 

She  closed  the  window  and  shrank  into  bed, 
where  she  cried  herself  to  sleep.  This  child, 
their  only  one,  Betty,  beloved  ambitiously  by  her 
mother,  and  with  uncalculating  passionateness  by 
her  father,  was  frequently  made  wretched  by  such 
episodes  as  this;  though  she  was  too  young  to 
care  very  deeply,  for  her  own  sake,  whether  her 
mother  betrothed  her  to  the  gentleman  discussed 
or  not. 

The  Squire  had  often  gone  out  of  the  house  in 
this  manner,  declaring  that  he  would  never  re- 
turn, but  he  had  always  reappeared  in  the  morn- 
ing. The  present  occasion,  however,  was  differ- 
ent in  the  issue ;  next  day  she  was  told  that  her 
father  had  ridden  to  his  estate  at  Falls  -Park  early 
in  the  morning  on  business  with  his  agent,  and 
might  not  come  back  for  some  days. 


THE   FIRST   COUNTESS    OF    WESSEX.  5 

Falls  -Park  was  over  twenty  miles  from  King's- 
Hintock  Court,  and  was  altogether  a  more  modest 
centre-piece  to  a  more  modest  possession  than  the 
latter.  But  as  Squire  Dornell  came  in  view  of  it 
that  February  morning,  he  thought  that  he  had 
been  a  fool  ever  to  leave  it,  though  it  was  for  the 
sake  of  the  greatest  heiress  in  Wessex.  Its  classic 
front,  of  the  period  of  the  second  Charles,  derived 
fi'om  its  regular  features  a  dignity  which  the 
great,  battlemented,  heterogeneous  mansion  of  his 
wife  could  not  eclipse.  Altogether  he  was  sick 
at  heart,  and  the  gloom  which  the  densely -tim- 
bered park  threw  over  the  scene  did  not  tend  to 
remove  the  depression  of  this  rubicund  man  of 
eight -and -forty,  who  sat  so  heavily  upon  his 
gelding.  The  child,  his  darling  Betty:  there  lay 
the  root  of  his  trouble.  He  was  unhappy  when 
near  his  wife,  he  was  unhappy  when  away  from 
his  little  girl,  and  from  this  dilemma  there  was  no 
practicable  escape.  As  a  consequence,  he  indulged 
rather  freely  in  the  pleasures  of  the  table,  became 
what  was  called  a  three-bottle  man,  and,  in  his 
wife's  estimation,  less  and  less  presentable  to  her 
polite  friends  from  town. 

lie  was  received  by  the  two  or  three  old  serv- 
ants who  were  in  charge  of  the  lonely  place,  where 
a  few  rooms  only  were  kept  habitable  for  his  use 
or  that  of  his  friends  when  hunting  ;  and  during 
the  morning  he  was  made  more  comfortable  by 
the  arrival  of  his  faithful  servant  Tupcombe  from 
King's-IIintock.      But  after  a  day  or  two  spent 


6  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

here  in  solitude  he  began  to  feel  that  he  had 
made  a  mistake  in  coming.  By  leaving  King's- 
Hintock  in  his  anger  he  had  thrown  away  his  best 
opportunity  of  counteracting  his  wife's  preposter- 
ous notion  of  promising  his  poor  little  Betty's 
hand  to  a  man  she  had  hardly  seen.  To  protect 
her  from  such  a  repugnant  bargain  he  should 
have  remained  on  the  spot.  He  felt  it  almost  as 
a  misfortune  that  the  child  would  inherit  so  much 
wealth.  She  would  be  a  mark  for  all  the  advent- 
urers in  the  kingdom.  Had  she  been  only  the 
heiress  to  his  own  unassuming  little  place  at  Falls, 
how  much  better  would  have  been  her  chances  of 
happiness ! 

His  wife  had  divined  truly  when  she  insinuated 
that  he  himself  had  a  lover  in  view  for  this  pet 
child.  The  son  of  a  dear  deceased  friend  of  his, 
who  lived  not  two  miles  from  where  the  Squire 
now  was,  a  lad  a  couple  of  years  his  daughter's 
senior,  seemed  in  her  father's  opinion  the  one 
person  in  the  world  likely  to  make  her  happy. 
But  as  to  breathing  such  a  scheme  to  either  of 
the  young  people  with  the  indecent  haste  that  his 
wife  had  shown,  he  would  not  dream  of  it;  years 
hence  would  be  soon  enough  for  that.  They  had 
already  seen  each  other,  and  the  Squire  fancied 
that  he  noticed  a  tenderness  on  the  youth's  part 
which  promised  well.  He  was  strongly  tempted 
to  profit  by  his  wife's  example,  and  forestall  her 
match-making  by  throwing  the  two  young  people 
together  there  at  Falls.      The  girl,  though  mar- 


KAI.I.S-PARK. 


THE    FIKST    COUNTESS    OF    WESSEX.  7 

riageable  in  the  views  of  those  days,  was  too 
young  to  be  in  love,  but  the  lad  was  fifteen,  and 
already  felt  an  interest  in  her. 

Still  better  than  keeping  watch  over  her  at 
King's-Hintock,  where  she  was  necessarily  much 
under  her  mother's  influence,  would  it  be  to  get 
the  child  to  stay  with  him  at  Falls  for  a  time, 
under  his  exclusive  control.  But  how  accomplish 
this  without  using  main  force?  The  only  possible 
chance  was  that  his  wife  might,  for  appearance' 
sake,  as  she  had  done  before,  consent  to  Betty 
paying  him  a  day's  visit,  when  he  might  find 
means  of  detaining  her  until  Reynard,  the  suitor 
whom  his  wife  favored,  had  gone  abroad,  w^hich 
he  was  expected  to  do  the  following  week.  Squire 
Dornell  determined  to  return  to  King's-Hintock 
and  attempt  the  enterprise.  If  he  Avere  refused, 
it  was  almost  in  him  to  pick  up  Betty  bodily  and 
carry  her  off. 

The  journey  back,  vague  and  quixotic  as  were 
his  intentions,  was  performed  with  a  far  lighter 
heart  than  his  setting  forth.  He  would  see  Betty 
and  talk  to  her,  come  what  might  of  his  plan. 

So  he  rode  along  the  dead  level  which  stretches 
between  the  hills  skirting  Falls-Park  and  those 
bounding  the  town  of  Ivell,  trotted  through  that 
borough,  and  out  by  the  King's-Hintock  high- 
way, till,  passing  the  village,  he  entered  the  mile- 
long  drive  through  the  park  to  the  Court.  The 
drive  being  open,  without  an  avenue,  the  Squire 
could  discern  the  north  front  and  door   of  the 


8  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMEg. 

Court  a  long  way  off,  and  was  himself  visible 
from  the  windows  on  that  side;  for  which  reason 
he  hoped  that  Betty  might  perceive  him  coming, 
as  she  sometimes  did  on  his  return  from  an  out- 
ing, and  run  to  the  door  or  wave  her  handker- 
chief. 

But  there  was  no  sign.  He  inquired  for  his 
wife  as  soon  as  he  set  foot  to  earth. 

"  Mistress  is  away.  She  was  called  to  London, 
sir." 

"  And  Mistress  Betty?"  said  the  Squire, blankly. 

"  Gone  likewise,  sir,  for  a  little  change.  Mis- 
tress has  left  a  letter  for  you." 

The  note  explained  nothing,  merely  stating 
that  she  had  posted  to  London  on  her  own  affairs, 
and  had  taken  the  child  to  give  her  a  holiday. 
On  the  fly-leaf  were  some  words  from  Betty  her- 
self to  the  same  effect,  evidently  written  in  a 
state  of  high  jubilation  at  the  idea  of  her  jaunt. 
Squire  Dornell  murmured  a  few  expletives,  and 
submitted  to  his  disappointment.  How  long  his 
wife  meant  to  stay  in  town  she  did  not  say;  but 
on  investigation  he  found  that  the  cai-riage  had 
been  packed  with  sufficient  luggage  for  a  sojourn 
of  two  or  three  weeks. 

King's -Hintock  Court  was  in  consequence  as 
gloomy  as  Falls-Park  had  been.  He  had  lost  all 
zest  for  hunting  of  late,  and  had  hardly  attended 
a  meet  that  season.  Dornell  read  and  reread 
Betty's  scrawl,  and  hunted  up  some  other  such 
notes  of  hers  to  look  over,  this  seeming  to  be  the 


THE    FIRST    COUNTESS    OF   WESSEX.  9 

only  pleasure  there  was  left  for  bim.  That  they 
were  really  in  London  he  learned  in  a  few  days 
by  another  letter  from  Mrs.  Dornell,  in  which  she 
explained  that  they  hoped  to  be  home  in  about  a 
week,  and  that  she  had  had  no  idea  he  was  com- 
ing back  to  King's-Hintock  so  soon,  or  she  would 
not  have  gone  away  without  telling  him. 

Squire  Dornell  wondered  if,  in  going  or  return- 
ing, it  had  been  her  plan  to  call  at  the  Reynards' 
place,  near  Melchester,  through  which  city  their 
journey  lay.  It  was  possible  that  she  might  do 
this  in  furtherance  of  her  project,  and  the  sense 
that  his  own  might  become  the  losing  game  was 
harassing. 

He  did  not  know  how  to  dispose  of  himself,  till 
it  occurred  to  him  that,  to  get  rid  of  his  intoler- 
able heaviness,  he  would  invite  some  friends  to 
dinner  and  drown  his  cares  in  grog  and  wine. 
No  sooner  was  the  carouse  decided  upon  than  he 
put  it  in  hand;  those  invited  being  mostly  neigh- 
boring landholders,  all  smaller  men  than  himself, 
members  of  the  hunt;  also  the  doctor  from  Evers- 
head,  and  the  like  —  some  of  them  rollicking 
blades  whose  presence  his  wife  would  not  have 
countenanced  had  she  been  at  home.  "  When  the 
cat's  away —  "  said  the  Squire. 

They  arrived,  and  there  were  indications  in 
their  manner  that  they  meant  to  make  a  night  of 
it.  Baxby  of  Sherton  Castle  was  late,  and  they 
waited  a  quarter  of  an  hour  for  him,  he  being 
one  of  the  liveliest  of  Dorueirs  friends ;  without 


10  A   GROUP    OP   NOBLE    DAMES, 

whose  presence  no  such  dinner  as  this  would  be 
considered  complete,  and,  it  may  be  added,  with 
whose  presence  no  dinner  which  included  both 
sexes  could  be  conducted  with  strict  propriety. 
He  had  just  returned  from  London,  and  the  Squire 
was  anxious  to  talk  to  him — for  no  definite  rea- 
son; but  he  had  lately  breathed  the  atmosphere  in 
which  Betty  was. 

At  length  they  heard  Baxby  driving  up  to  the 
door,  whereupon  the  host  and  the  rest  of  his  guests 
crossed  over  to  the  dining-room.  In  a  moment 
Baxby  came  hastily  in  at  their  heels,  apologizing 
for  his  lateness. 

"  I  only  came  back  last  night,  you  know,"  he 
said;  "and  the  truth  o't  is,  I  had  as  much  as  I 
could  carry."  He  turned  to  the  Squire.  "  Well, 
Dornell — so  cunning  Reynard  has  stolen  your  lit- 
tle ewe  lamb  ?     Ha,  ha  !" 

"  What  ?"  said  Squire  Dornell,  vacantly,  across 
the  dining-table,  round  which  they  were  all  stand- 
ing, the  cold  March  sunlight  streaming  in  upon 
his  full,  clean-shaven  face. 

"Surely  th'st  know  what  all  the  town  knows? 
— you've  had  a  letter  by  this  time? — that  Ste- 
phen Reynard  has  married  your  daughter  Betty  ? 
Yes,  as  I'm  a  living  man.  It  was  a  carefully- 
arranged  thing  ;  they  parted  at  once,  and  are  not 
to  meet  for  five  or  six  years.  But,  Lord,  you  must 
know !" 

A  thud  on  the  floor  was  the  only  reply  of  the 
Squire.      They  quickly  turned.      He  had  fallen 


THE    FIRST   COUNTESS    OF    WESSEX.  11 

down  like  a  log  behind  the  table,  and  lay  motion- 
less on  the  oak  boards. 

Those  at  hand  hastily  bent  over  him,  and  the 
whole  group  were  in  confusion.  They  found  him 
to  be  quite  unconscious,  though  puffing  and  pant- 
ing like  a  blacksmith's  bellows.  His  face  was 
livid,  his  veins  swollen,  and  beads  of  perspiration 
stood  upon  his  brow. 

"  What's  happened  to  him  ?"  said  several. 

"An  apoplectic  fit,"  said  the  doctor  from  Evers- 
head,  gravely. 

He  was  only  called  in  at  the  Court  for  small 
ailments,  as  a  rule,  and  felt  the  importance  of  the 
situation.  He  lifted  the  Squire's  head,  loosened 
his  cravat  and  clothing,  and  rang  for  the  servants, 
who  took  the  Squire  up-stairs. 

There  he  lay  as  if  in  a  drugged  sleep.  The 
surgeon  drew  a  basinful  of  blood  from  Iiim,  but 
it  was  nearly  six  o'clock  before  he  came  to  him- 
self. Tlie  dinner  was  completely  disorganized, 
and  some  had  gone  homo  long  ago ;  but  two  or 
three  remained. 

"Bless  my  soul,"  Baxby  kept  repeating,  "I 
didn't  know  things  had  come  to  this  pass  between 
Dornell  and  his  lady  !  I  thought  the  feast  he  was 
spreading  to-day  was  in  honor  of  the  event,  though 
privately  kept  for  the  present !  His  little  maid 
married  without  his  knowledge !" 

As  soon  as  the  Squire  recovered  consciousness 
he  gasped  :  '"Tis  abduction  !  'Tis  a  capital  fel- 
ony !     He  can  be  hung  !     Where  is  Baxby  ?     I 


12  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

am  very  well  now.  What  items  have  ye  heard, 
Baxby  ?" 

The  bearer  of  the  untoward  news  was  extreme- 
ly unwilling  to  agitate  Dornell  further,  and  would 
say  little  more  at  first.  But  an  hour  after,  when 
the  Squire  had  partially  recovered  and  was  sitting 
up,  Baxby  told  as  much  as  he  knew,  the  most  im- 
portant particular  being  that  Betty's  mother  was 
present  at  the  marriage,  and  showed  every  mark 
of  approval.  "  Everything  appeared  to  have  been 
done  so  regularly  that  I,  of  course,  thought  you 
knew  all  about  it,"  he  said. 

"I  knew  no  more  than  the  underground  dead 
that  such  a  step  was  in  the  wind  !  A  child  not 
yet  thirteen  !  How  Sue  hath  outwitted  me  !  Did 
Reynard  go  up  to  Lon'on  with  'em,  d'ye  know?" 

"  I  can't  say.  All  I  know  is  that  your  lady  and 
daughter  were  walking  along  the  street,  with  the 
footman  behind  'em ;  that  they  entered  a  jewel- 
ler's shop,  where  Reynard  was  standing  ;  and  that 
there,  in  the  presence  o'  the  shopkeeper  and  your 
man,  who  was  called  in  on  purpose,  your  Betty 
said  to  Reynard — so  the  story  goes  :  'pon  my  soul, 
I  don't  vouch  for  the  truth  of  it — she  said,  *  Will 
you  marry  me  ?'  or,  '  I  want  to  marry  you  :  will 
you  have  me — now  or  never?'  she  said." 

"  What  she  said  means  nothing,"  murmured  the 
Squire,  with  wet  eyes.  "Her  mother  put  the 
words  into  her  mouth  to  avoid  the  serious  conse- 
quences that  would  attach  to  any  suspicion  of 
force.     The  words  be  not  the  child's — she  didn't 


THE    FIRST    COUNTESS    OF    WESSEX.  13 

dream  of  marriage — liow  should  she,  poor  little 
maid  !     Go  on." 

"  Well,  be  that  as  it  will,  they  were  all  agreed 
apparently.  They  bought  the  ring  on  the  spot, 
and  the  marriage  took  place  at  the  nearest  church 
Avithin  half  an  hour." 

A  day  or  two  later  there  came  a  letter  from 
Mrs.  Dornell  to  her  husband,  written  before  she 
knew  of  his  stroke.  She  related  the  circumstances 
of  the  raai'riage  in  the  gentlest  manner,  and  gave 
cogent  reasons  and  excuses  for  consenting  to  the 
preraatui'e  union,  which  was  now  an  accomplished 
fact  indeed.  She  had  no  idea,  till  sudden  press- 
ure was  put  upon  her,  that  the  contract  was  ex- 
pected to  be  carried  out  so  soon,  but  being  taken 
half  unawares,  she  had  consented,  having  learned 
that  Stephen  Reynard,  now  their  son-in-law,  was 
becoming  a  great  favorite  at  Court,  and  that  he 
would  in  all  likelihood  have  a  title  granted  him 
before  long.  No  harm  could  come  to  their  dear 
daughter  by  this  early  marriage-contract,  seeing 
that  her  life  would  be  continued  under  their  own 
eyes,  exactly  as  before,  for  some  years.  In  fine, 
she  had  felt  that  no  other  such  fair  opportunity 
for  a  good  marriage  with  a  shrewd  courtier  and 
wise  man  of  the  world,  who  was  at  the  same  time 
noted  for  his  excellent  personal  qualities,  was  with- 
in the  range  of  probability,  owing  to  the  rusticat- 
ed lives  they  led  at  King's-IIintock.  Hence  she 
had  yielded  to  Stephen's  solicitations,  and  hoped 


14  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

her  husband  would  forgive  her.  She  wrote,  in 
short,  like  a  woman  who,  having  had  her  way  as 
to  the  deed,  is  prepared  to  make  any  concession 
as  to  words  and  subsequent  behavior. 

All  this  Dornell  took  at  its  true  value,  or  rather, 
perhaps,  at  less  than  its  true  value.  As  his  life 
depended  on  his  not  getting  into  a  passion,  he 
controlled  his  perturbed  emotions  as  well  as  he 
was  able,  going  about  the  house  sadly  and  utterly 
unlike  his  former  self.  He  took  every  precaution 
to  prevent  his  wife  knowing  of  the  incidents  of 
his  sudden  illness,  from  a  sense  of  shame  at  having 
a  heart  so  tender  ;  a  ridiculous  quality,  no  doubt, 
in  her  eyes,  now  that  she  had  become  so  imbued 
with  town  ideas.  But  rumors  of  his  seizure  some- 
how reached  her,  and  she  let  him  know  that  she 
was  about  to  return  to  nurse  him.  He  thereupon 
packed  up  and  went  off  to  his  own  place  at  Falls- 
Park. 

Here  he  lived  the  life  of  a  recluse  for  some 
time.  He  was  still  too  unwell  to  entertain  com- 
pany, or  to  ride  to  hounds  or  elsewhither ;  but 
more  than  this,  his  aversion  to  the  faces  of  stran- 
gers and  acquaintances,  who  knew  by  that  time  of 
the  trick  his  wife  had  played  him,  operated  to 
hold  him  aloof. 

Nothing  could  influence  him  to  censure  Betty 
for  her  share  in  the  exploit.  He  never  once  be- 
lieved that  she  had  acted  voluntarily.  Anxious 
to  know  how  she  was  getting  on,  he  despatched 
the  trusty  servant  Tupcombe  to  Evershead  village, 


THE    FIRST   COUNTESS    OF   WESSEX. 


15 


AT  THE   SOW-AND-ACORN. 


close  to  King's -Hintock,  timing  his  journey  so 
tliat  he  slioukl  reach  the  place  under  cover  of 
(lark.  The  emissary  arrived  without  notice,  being 
out  of  livery,  and  took  a  seat  in  the  chimney- 
corner  of  the  Sow- and -Acorn. 

The  conversation  of  the  droppers-in  was  always 
of  the  nine  days'  wonder  —  the  recent  marriage. 
The  smoking  listener  learned  that  Mrs.  Dornell  and 


16         A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

the  girl  had  returned  to  King's -Hintock  for  a  day 
or  two,  that  Reynard  had  set  out  for  the  Conti- 
nent, and  that  Betty  had  since  been  packed  off  to 
school.  She  did  not  realize  her  position  as  Rey- 
nard's child- wife — so  the  story  went — and  though 
somewhat  awe-stricken  at  first  by  the  ceremony, 
she  had  soon  recovered  her  spirits  on  finding  that 
her  freedom  was  in  no  way  to  be  interfered  with. 

After  that,  formal  messages  began  to  pass  be- 
tween Dornell  and  his  wife,  the  latter  being  now 
as  persistently  conciliating  as  she  was  formerly 
masterful.  But  her  rustic,  simple,  blustering  hus- 
band still  held  personally  aloof.  Her  wish  to  be 
reconciled — to  win  his  forgiveness  for  her  strata- 
gem— moreover,  a  genuine  tenderness  and  desire 
to  soothe  his  sorrow,  which  welled  up  in  her  at 
times,  brought  her  at  last  to  his  door  at  Falls- 
Park  one  day. 

They  had  not  met  since  that  night  of  alterca- 
tion, before  her  departure  for  London  and  his  sub- 
sequent illness.  She  was  shocked  at  the  change 
in  him.  His  face  had  become  expressionless,  as 
blank  as  that  of  a  puppet,  and  what  troubled  her 
still  more  was  that  she  found  him  living  in  one 
room,  and  indulging  freely  in  stimulants,  in  ab- 
solute disobedience  to  the  physician's  order.  The 
fact  was  obvious  that  he  could  no  longer  be  al- 
lowed to  live  thus  uncouthly. 

So  she  sympathized,  and  begged  his  pardon, 
and  coaxed.  But  though  after  this  date  there 
was  no  longer  such  a  complete  estrangement  as 


THE    FIRST   COUNTESS    OF   WESSEX.  17 

before,  they  only  occasionally  saw  each  other, 
Dornell  for  the  most  part  making  Falls  his  head- 
quarters still. 

Three  or  four  years  passed  thus.  Then  she 
came  one  day,  with  more  animation  in  her  man- 
ner, and  at  once  moved  him  by  the  simple  state- 
ment that  Betty's  schooling  had  ended ;  she 
had  returned,  and  was  grieved  because  he  was 
away.  She  had  sent  a  message  to  him  in  these 
words  :  "  Ask  father  to  come  home  to  his  dear 
Betty." 

"Ah!  Then  she  is  very  unhappy  !"  said  Squire 
Dornell. 

His  wife  was  silent. 

"  'Tis  that  accursed  marriage  !"  continued  the 
Squire. 

Still  his  wife  would  not  dispute  with  him. 
"She  is  outside  in  the  carriage,"  said  Mrs.  Dor- 
nell, gently. 

"What— Betty?" 

"Yes." 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?"  Dornell  rushed 
out,  and  there  was  the  girl  awaiting  liis  forgive- 
ness, for  she  supposed  herself,  no  less  than  her 
mother,  to  be  under  his  displeasure. 

Yes,  Betty  had  left  school,  and  had  returned  to 
King's -Ilintock.  She  was  nearly  seventeen,  and 
had  developed  to  quite  a  young  woman.  She 
looked  not  less  a  member  of  the  household  for 
her  early  marriage -contract,  which  she  seemed, 
indeed,  to  have  almost  forgotten.  It  was  like  a 
2 


18         A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

dream  to  her ;  that  clear,  cold  March  day,  the 
London  church,  with  its  gorgeous  pews  and  green- 
baize  linings,  and  the  great  organ  in  the  west  gal- 
lery— so  different  from  their  own  little  church  in 
the  shrubbery  of  King's  -Hintock  Court — the  man 
of  thirty,  to  whose  face  she  had  looked  up  with  so 
much  awe,  and  with  a  sense  that  he  was  rather 
ugly  and  formidable  ;  the  man  whom,  though 
they  corresponded  politely,  she  had  never  seen 
since  ;  one  to  whose  existence  she  was  now  so  in- 
different that  if  informed  of  his  death,  and  that 
she  would  never  see  him  more,  she  would  merely 
have  replied,  "  Indeed  !"  Betty's  passions  as  yet 
still  slept. 

"Hast  heard  from  thy  husband  lately?"  said 
Squire  Dornell,  when  they  were  in-doors,  with  an 
ironical  laugh  of  fondness  which  demanded  no 
answer. 

The  girl  winced,  and  he  noticed  that  his  wife 
looked  appealingly  at  him.  As  the  conversation 
went  on,  and  there  were  signs  that  Dornell  would 
express  sentiments  that  might  do  harm  to  a  posi- 
tion which  they  could  not  alter,  Mrs.  Dornell  sug- 
gested that  Betty  should  leave  the  room  till  her 
father  and  herself  had  finished  their  private  con- 
versation ;  and  this  Betty  obediently  did. 

Dornell  renewed  his  animadversions  freely. 
"  Did  you  see  how  the  sound  of  his  name  fright- 
ened her  ?"  he  presently  added.  "  If  you  didn't, 
I  did.  Zounds  !  what  a  future  is  in  store  for  that 
poor  little  unfortunate  wench  o'  mine !     I  tell  'ee, 


THE    FIRST   COUNTESS    OF    WESSEX.  19 

Suey  'twas  not  a  marriage  at  all,  in  morality,  and 
if  I  were  a  woman  in  such  a  position,  I  shouldn't 
feel  it  as  one.  She  might,  without  a  sign  of  sin, 
love  a  man  of  her  choice  as  well  now  as  if  she 
were  chained  up  to  no  other  at  all.  There,  that's 
my  mind,  and  I  can't  help  it.  Ah,  Sue,  my  man 
was  best  !     He'd  ha'  suited  her." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  she  replied,  incredulously. 

"  You  should  see  him  ;  then  you  would.  He's 
growing  up  a  fine  fellow,  I  can  tell  'ee." 

"  Hush !  not  so  loud  !"  she  answered,  rising 
from  her  seat  and  going  to  the  door  of  the  next 
room,  whither  her  daughter  had  betaken  herself. 
To  Mrs.  Dornell's  alarm,  there  sat  Betty  in  a  rev- 
erie, her  round  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  musing  so 
deeply  that  she  did  not  perceive  her  mother's  en- 
trance. She  had  heard  every  word,  and  was  di- 
gesting the  new  knowledge. 

Her  mother  felt  that  Falls  -Park  was  dangerous 
ground  for  a  young  girl  of  the  susceptible  age, 
and  in  Betty's  peculiar  position,  while  Dornell 
talked  and  reasoned  thus.  She  called  Betty  to 
her,  and  they  took  leave.  The  Squire  would  not 
clearly  promise  to  return  and  make  King's  -Hin- 
tock  Court  his  permanent  abode;  but  Betty's 
presence  there,  as  at  former  times,  was  sufiicient 
to  make  him  agree  to  pay  them  a  visit  soon. 

All  the  way  home  Betty  remained  preoccupied 
and  silent.  It  was  too  plain  to  her  anxious  mother 
that  Squire  Dornell's  free  views  had  been  a  sort 
of  awakening  to  the  girl. 


20  A    GROUP   OF   NOBLE    DAMKS, 

The  interval  before  Dornell  redeemed  his  pledge 
to  come  and  see  them  was  unexpectedly  short. 
He  arrived  one  morning  about  twelve  o'clock, 
driving  his  own  pair  of  black  bays  in  the  curricle- 
phaeton  with  yellow  panels  and  red  wheels,  just 
as  he  had  used  to  do,  and  his  faithful  old  Tup- 
combe  on  horseback  behind.  A  young  man  sat 
beside  the  Squire  in  the  carriage,  and  Mrs.  Dor- 
nell's  consternation  could  scarcely  be  concealed 
when,  abruptly  entering  with  his  companion,  the 
Squire  announced  him  as  his  friend  Phelipson  of 
Elm-Cranlynch. 

Dornell  passed  on  to  Betty  in  the  background 
and  tenderly  kissed  her.  "  Sting  your  mother's 
conscience,  my  maid  !"  he  whispered.  "  Sting  her 
conscience  by  pretending  you  are  struck  with 
Phelipson,  and  would  ha'  loved  him,  as  your  old 
father's  choice,  much  more  than  him  she  has  forced 
upon  'ee." 

The  simple-souled  speaker  fondly  imagined  that 
it  was  entirely  in  obedience  to  this  direction  that 
Betty's  eyes  stole  interested  glances  at  the  frank 
and  impulsive  Phelipson  that  day  at  dinner,  and 
he  laughed  grimly  within  himself  to  see  how  this 
joke  of  his,  as  he  imagined  it  to  be,  was  disturb- 
ing the  peace  of  mind  of  the  lady  of  the  house. 
"  Now  Sue  sees  what  a  mistake  she  has  made !" 
said  he. 

Mrs.  Dornell  was  verily  greatly  alarmed,  and  as 
soon  as  she  could  speak  a  word  with  him  alone  she 
upbraided  him.    "  You  ought  not  to  have  brought 


THP:    first   COtTNTESS    OF   WESSEX.  21 

him  here.  Oh,  Thomas,  how  could  you  be  so 
thoughtless !  Lord,  don't  you  see,  dear,  that 
what  is  done  cannot  be  undone,  and  how  all  this 
foolery  jeopardizes  her  happiness  with  her  hus- 
band ?  Until  you  interfered,  and  spoke  in  her 
hearing  about  this  Phelipson,  she  was  as  patient 
and  as  willing  as  a  lamb,  and  looked  forward  to 
Mr.  Reynard's  return  with  real  pleasure.  Since 
her  visit  to  Falls -Park  she  has  been  monstrous 
close-mouthed  and  busy  with  her  own  thoughts. 
What  mischief  will  you  do  ?      How  will  it  end  ?" 

"  Own,  then,  that  my  man  was  best  suited  to 
her.     I  only  brought  him  to  convince  you." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  do  admit  it.  But  oh  !  do  take  him 
back  again  at  once  !  Don't  keep  him  here  !  I 
fear  she  is  even  attracted  by  him  already." 

"  Nonsense,  Sue.  'Tis  only  a  little  trick  to  tease 
'ce  !" 

Nevertheless  her  motherly  eye  was  not  so  likely 
to  be  deceived  as  his,  and  if  Betty  were  really 
only  playing  at  being  love-struck  that  day,  she 
played  it  with  the  ])erfection  of  a  Rosalind,  and 
would  have  deceived  the  best  professors  into  a 
belief  that  it  was  no  counterfeit.  The  Squire, 
having  obtained  his  victory,  was  quite  ready  to 
take  back  the  too  attractive  youth,  and  early  in 
the  afternoon  they  set  out  on  their  return  jour- 
ney. 

A  silent  figure  who  rode  behind  them  was  as 
interested  as  Dornell  in  that  day's  experiment. 
It  was  the  stanch  Tupcombe,  who,  with  his  eyes 


22         A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

on  the  Squire's  and  young  Phelipson's  backs, 
thought  how  well  the  latter  would  have  suited 
Betty,  and  how  greatly  the  former  had  changed 
for  the  worse  during  these  last  two  or  three  years. 
He  cursed  his  mistress  as  the  cause  of  the  change. 
After  this  memorable  visit  to  prove  his  point, 
the  lives  of  the  Dornell  couple  flowed  on  quietly 
enough  for  the  space  of  a  twelvemonth,  the  Squire 
for  the  most  part  remaining  at  Falls,  and  Betty 
passing  and  repassing  between  them  now  and 
then,  once  or  twice  alarming  her  mother  by  not 
driving  home  from  her  father's  house  till  mid- 
night. 

The  repose  of  King's-Hintock  was  broken  by 
the  arrival  of  a  special  messenger.  Squire  Dor- 
nell had  had  an  access  of  gout  so  violent  as  to  be 
serious.  He  wished  to  see  Betty  again  :  why  had 
she  not  come  for  so  long? 

Mrs.  Dornell  was  extremely  reluctant  to  take 
Betty  in  that  direction  too  frequently  ;  but  the 
girl  was  so  anxious  to  go,  her  intei'ests  latterly 
seeming  to  be  so  entirely  bound  up  in  Falls-Park 
and  its  neighborhood,  that  there  was  nothing  to 
be  done  but  to  let  her  set  out  and  accompany  her. 

Squire  Dornell  had  been  impatiently  awaiting 
her  arrival.  They  found  him  very  ill  and  irritable. 
It  had  been  his  habit  to  take  powerful  medicines 
to  drive  away  his  enemy,  and  they  had  failed  in 
their  effect  on  this  occasion. 

The  presence  of  his  daughter,  as  usual,  calmed 


THE    FIRST   COUNTESS    OF    WESSEX.  23 

him  much,  even  while,  as  usual  too,  it  saddened 
him ;  for  he  could  never  forget  that  she  had  dis- 
posed of  herself  for  life  in  opposition  to  his  wishes, 
though  she  had  secretly  assured  him  that  she  would 
never  have  consented  liad  she  been  as  old  as  she 
was  now. 

As  on  a  former  occasion,  bis  wife  wished  to 
speak  to  him  alone  about  the  girl's  future,  tlie 
time  now  drawing  nigh  at  which  lleynard  was 
expected  to  come  and  claim  her.  He  would  have 
done  so  already,  but  he  had  been  put  off  by 
the  earnest  request  of  the  young  woman  herself, 
which  accorded  with  that  of  her  parents,  on  the 
score  of  her  youth.  Reynard  had  deferentially 
submitted  to  their  wishes  in  this  respect,  the  un- 
derstanding between  them  having  been  that  he 
would  not  visit  lier  before  she  was  eighteen,  ex- 
cept by  the  mutual  consent  of  all  parties.  But 
this  could  not  go  on  much  longer,  and  thei'e  was 
no  doubt,  from  the  teror  of  his  last  letter,  that  he 
would  soon  take  possession  of  her  whether  or  no. 

To  be  out  of  the  sound  of  this  delicate  discus- 
sion Betty  was  accordingly  sent  down-stairs,  and 
they  soon  saw  her  walking  away  into  the  shrub- 
beries, looking  very  pretty  in  her  sweeping  green 
gown,  and  flapping  broad-brimmed  hat  overhung 
with  a  feather. 

On  returning  to  the  subject,  Mrs.  Dornell  found 
her  husband's  reluctance  to  reply  in  the  aftirmative 
to  Reynard's  letter  to  be  as  great  as  ever. 

"She  is  three  months  short  of  ciglitcen  !"  he  ex- 


24  A   GEOUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

claimed.  "  'Tis  too  soon.  I  won't  hear  of  it !  If 
I  have  to  keep  him  off  sword  in  hand,  he  shall 
not  have  her  yet." 

"  But,  my  dear  Thomas,"  she  expostulated, 
"  consider  if  anything  should  happen  to  you  or  to 
me,  how  much  better  it  would  be  that  she  should 
be  settled  in  her  home  with  him  !" 

*'  I  say  it  is  too  soon  !"  he  argued,  the  veins  of 
his  forehead  beginning  to  swell.  "  If  he  gets  her 
this  side  o'  Candlemas  I'll  challenge  en — I'll  take 
my  oath  on't !  I'll  be  back  at  King's-Hintock  in 
two  or  three  days,  and  I'll  not  lose  sight  of  her 
day  or  night !" 

She  feared  to  agitate  him  further,  and  gave 
way,  assuring  him,  in  obedience  to  his  demand, 
that  if  Reynard  should  write  again,  before  he  got 
back,  to  fix  a  time  for  joining  Betty,  she  would 
put  the  letter  in  her  husband's  hands,  and  he 
should  do  as  he  chose.  This  was  all  that  required 
discussion  privately,  and  Mrs.  Dornell  went  to 
call  in  Betty,  hoping  that  she  had  not  heard  her 
father's  loud  tones. 

She  had  certainly  not  done  so  this  time.  Mrs. 
Dornell  followed  the  path  along  which  she  had 
seen  Betty  wandering,  but  went  a  considerable 
distance  without  perceiving  anything  of  her.  The 
Squire's  wife  then  turned  round  to  proceed  to  the 
other  side  of  the  house  by  a  short-cut  across  the 
grass,  when,  to  her  surprise  and  constei'nation, 
she  beheld  the  object  of  her  search  sitting  on  the 
horizontal  bough  of  a  cedar,  beside  her  being  a 


THE   FIRST   COUNTESS    OF   WESSEX,  25 

young  man,  whose  arm  was  round  her  waist.  He 
moved  a  little,  and  she  recognized  him  as  young 
Phelipson. 

Alas,  then,  she  was  right !  The  so-called  coun- 
terfeit love  was  real.  What  Mrs.  Dornell  called 
her  husband  at  that  moment,  for  his  folly  in  orig- 
inally throwing  the  young  people  together,  it  is 
not  necessary  to  mention.  She  decided  in  a 
moment  not  to  let  the  lovers  know  that  she  had 
seen  them.  She  accordingly  retreated,  reached 
the  front  of  the  house  by  another  route,  and 
called  at  the  top  of  her  voice  from  a  window, 
"  Betty !" 

For  the  first  time  since  her  strategic  marriage 
of  the  child,  Susan  Dornell  doubted  the  wisdom 
of  that  step.  Her  husband  had,  as  it  were,  been 
assisted  by  destiny  to  make  his  objection,  origi- 
nally trivial,  a  valid  one.  She  saw  the  outlines  of 
trouble  in  the  future.  Why  had  Dornell  inter- 
fered ?  Why  had  hr.  insisted  upon  producing  his 
man  ?  This,  then,  accounted  for  Betty's  pleading 
for  postponement  whenever  the  subject  of  her 
husband's  return  was  broached  ;  this  accounted 
for  her  attachment  to  Falls-Park.  Possibly  this 
very  meeting  that  she  had  witnessed  had  been 
arranged  by  letter. 

Perhaps  the  girl's  thoughts  would  never  have 
strayed  for  a  moment  if  her  father  had  not  filled 
her  head  with  ideas  of  repugnance  to  her  early 
union,  on  the  ground  that  she  had  been  coerced 
into  it  before  she  knew  her  own  mind ;  and  she 


26  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

might  have  rushed  to  meet  her  husband  with  open 
arms  on  the  appointed  day. 

Betty  at  length  appeared  in  the  distance  in  an- 
swer to  the  call,  and  came  up  pale,  but  looking 
innocent  of  having  seen  a  living  soul.  Mrs.  Cor- 
nell groaned  in  spirit  at  such  duplicity  in  the  child 
of  her  bosom.  This  was  the  simple  creature  for 
whose  development  into  womanhood  they  had  all 
been  so  tenderly  waiting  —  a  forward  minx,  old 
enough  not  only  to  have  a  lover,  but  to  conceal 
his  existence  as  adroitly  as  any  woman  of  the 
world  !  Bitterly  did  the  Squire's  lady  regret 
that  Stephen  Reynard  had  not  been  allowed  to 
come  to  claim  her  at  the  time  he  first  proposed. 

The  two  sat  beside  each  other  almost  in  silence 
on  their  journey  back  to  King's-Hintock.  Such 
words  as  were  spoken  came  mainly  from  Betty, 
and  their  formality  indicated  how  much  her  mind 
and  heart  were  occupied  with  other  things. 

Mrs.  Dornell  was  far  too  astute  a  mother  to 
openly  attack  Betty  on  the  matter.  That  would 
be  only  fanning  flame.  The  indispensable  course 
seemed  to  her  to  be  that  of  keeping  the  treacher- 
ous girl  under  lock  and  key  till  her  husband  came 
to  take  her  off  her  mother's  hands.  That  he  would 
disregard  Dornell's  opposition,  and  come  soon, 
was  her  devout  wish. 

It  seemed,  therefore,  a  fortunate  coincidence 
that  on  her  arrival  at  King's-Hintock  a  letter  from 
Reynard  was  put  into  Mrs,  Dornell's  hands.  It 
was  addressed  to  both  her  and  her  husband,  and 


THE   FIRST   COUNTESS    OP   WESSEX,  27 

courteously  informed  them  that  the  writer  had 
landed  at  Bristol,  and  proposed  to  come  on  to 
King's-Hintock  in  a  few  days,  at  last  to  meet  and 
carry  off  his  darling  Betty,  if  she  and  her  parents 
saw  no  objection. 

Betty  had  also  received  a  letter  of  the  same 
tenor.  Her  mother  had  only  to  look  at  her  face 
to  see  how  the  girl  received  the  information.  She 
was  as  pale  as  a  sheet. 

"  You  must  do  your  best  to  welcome  him  this 
time,  my  dear  Betty,"  her  mother  said,  gently. 

"  But— but— I—" 

"You  are  a  woman  now,"  added  her  mother, 
severely,  "  and  these  postponements  must  come 
to  an  end." 

"  But  ray  father — oh,  I  am  sure  he  will  not  al- 
low this  !  I  am  not  ready.  If  he  could  only  wait 
a  year  longer — if  he  could  only  wait  a  few  months 
longer  !  Oh,  I  wish — I  wish  my  dear  father  were 
here  !  I  will  send  to  him  instantly."  She  broke 
off  abruptly,  and  falling  upon  her  mother's  neck, 
burst  into  tears,  saying,  **0  my  mother,  have 
mercy  upon  me — I  do  not  love  this  man,  my  hus- 
band 1" 

The  agonized  appeal  went  too  straight  to  Mrs, 
Dornell's  heart  for  her  to  hear  it  unmoved.  Yet, 
things  having  come  to  this  pass,  what  could  she 
do?  She  was  distracted,  and  for  a  moment  was 
on  Betty's  side.  Her  original  thought  had  been 
to  write  an  affirmative  reply  to  Reynard,  allow 
him  to  come  on  to  King's-Hintock,  and  keep  her 


28        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

husband  in  ignorance  of  the  whole  proceeding  till 
he  should  arrive  from  Falls  on  some  fine  day  after 
his  recovery,  and  find  everything  settled,  and  Rey- 
nard and  Betty  living  together  in  harmony.  But 
the  events  of  the  day,  and  her  daughter's  sudden 
outburst  of  feeling,  had  overthrown  this  intention. 
Betty  was  sure  to  do  as  she  had  threatened,  and 
communicate  instantly  with  her  father,  possibly 
attempt  to  fly  to  him.  Moreover,  Reynard's  letter 
was  addressed  to  Mr.  Dornell  and  herself  conjoint- 
ly, and  she  could  not  in  conscience  keep  it  from 
her  husband. 

"  I  will  send  the  letter  on  to  your  father  instant- 
ly," she  replied,  soothingly.  "  He  shall  act  entirely 
as  he  chooses,  and  you  know  that  will  not  be  in 
opposition  to  your  wishes.  He  would  ruin  you 
rather  than  thwart  you.  I  only  hope  he  may  be 
well  enough  to  bear  the  agitation  of  this  news. 
Do  you  agree  to  this  ?" 

Poor  Betty  agreed,  on  condition  that  she  should 
actually  witness  the  despatch  of  the  letter.  Her 
mother  had  no  objection  to  offer  to  this ;  but  as 
soon  as  the  horseman  had  cantered  down  the  drive 
towards  the  highway,  Mrs.  Dornell's  sympathy 
with  Betty's  recalcitration  began  to  die  out.  The 
girl's  secret  affection  for  young  Phelipson  could 
not  possibly  be  condoned.  Betty  might  commu- 
nicate with  him,  might  even  try  to  reach  him. 
Ruin  lay  that  way.  Stephen  Reynard  must  be 
speedily  installed  in  his  proper  place  by  Betty's 
side. 


THE    FIRST   COUNTESS    OF    WESSEX.  29 

She  sat  down  and  penned  a  private  letter  to 
Reynard,  which  threw  light  upon  her  plan. 

"It  is  necessary  that  I  should  now  tell  you," 
she  said,  "  what  I  have  never  mentioned  before — 
indeed  I  may  have  signified  the  contrary — that 
her  father's  objection  to  your  joining  her  has  not 
as  yet  been  overcome.  As  I  personally  wish  to 
delay  you  no  longer — am  indeed  as  anxious  for 
your  arrival  as  you  can  be  yourself,  having  the 
good  of  my  daughter  at  heart — no  course  is  left 
open  to  me  but  to  assist  your  cause  without  my 
husband's  knowledge.  He,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  is 
at  present  ill  at  Falls-Park,  but  I  felt  it  my  duty 
to  forward  him  your  letter.  He  will  therefore  be 
like  to  reply  with  a  peremptory  command  to  you 
to  go  back  again,  for  some  months,  whence  you 
came,  till  the  time  he  originally  stipulated  has 
expired.  My  advice  is,  if  you  get  such  a  letter, 
to  take  no  notice  of  it,  but  to  come  on  hither  as 
you  had  proposed,  letting  me  know  the  day  and 
hour  (after  dark,  if  possible)  at  which  we  may 
expect  you.  Dear  Betty  is  with  me,  and  I  war- 
rant ye  that  she  shall  be  in  the  house  when  you 


arrive." 


Mrs.  Dornell,  having  sent  awa^^  tliis  epistle  un- 
suspected of  anybody,  next  took  ste)is  to  prevent 
her  daughter  leaving  tlie  Court,  avoiding  if  pos- 
sible to  excite  the  girl's  suspicions  that  she  was 
under  restraint.     But,  as  if  by  divination,  Betty 


30         A  GROUP  OP  NOBLE  DAMES. 

had  seemed  to  read  the  husband's  approach  in  the 
aspect  of  her  mother's  face. 

"  He  is  coming  !"  exclaimed  the  maiden. 

"Not  for  a  week,"  her  mother  assured  her, 

"  He  is  then — for  certain  ?" 

"  Well,  yes." 

Betty  hastily  retired  to  her  room,  and  would 
not  be  seen. 

To  lock  her  up,  and  hand  over  the  key  to  Rey- 
nard when  he  should  appear  in  the  hall,  was  a  plan 
charming  in  its  simplicity,  till  her  mother  found, 
on  trying  the  door  of  the  girl's  chamber  softly, 
that  Betty  had  already  locked  and  bolted  it  on  the 
inside,  and  had  given  directions  to  have  her  meals 
served  where  she  was,  by  leaving  them  on  a  dumb- 
waiter outside  the  door. 

Thereupon  Mrs.  Dornell  noiselessly  sat  down  in 
her  boudoir,  which,  as  well  as  her  bed-chamber, 
was  a  passage-room  to  the  girl's  apartment,  and 
she  resolved  not  to  vacate  her  post  night  or  day 
till  her  daughter's  husband  should  appear,  to 
which  end  she  too  arranged  to  breakfast,  dine, 
and  sup  on  the  spot.  It  was  impossible  now  that 
Betty  should  escape  without  her  knowledge,  even 
if  she  had  wished,  there  being  no  other  door  to 
the  chamber,  except  one  admitting  to  a  small  in- 
ner dressing-room  inaccessible  by  any  second  way. 

But  it  was  plain  that  the  young  girl  had  no 
thought  of  escape.  Her  ideas  ran  rather  in  the 
direction  of  intrenchment :  she  was  prepared  to 
stand  a  siege,  but  scorned  flight.      This,  at  any 


THK   FIRST   COUNTESS    OF    WESSEX,  31 

rate,  rendered  ber  secure.  As  to  how  Reynard 
would  contrive  a  meeting  with  her  coy  daughter 
Avhile  in  such  a  defensive  humor,  that,  thought 
her  mother,  must  be  left  to  his  own  ingenuity  to 
discover. 

Betty  had  looked  so  wild  and  pale  at  the  an- 
nouncement of  her  husband's  approaching  visit, 
that  Mrs.  Dornell,  somewhat  uneasy,  could  not 
leave  her  to  herself.  She  peeped  through  the  key- 
hole an  hour  later.  Betty  lay  on  the  sofa,  staring 
listlessly  at  the  ceiling. 

"  You  are  looking  ill,  child,"  cried  her  mother. 
"  You've  not  taken  the  air  lately.  Come  with  me 
for  a  drive." 

Betty  made  no  objection.  Soon  they  drove 
through  the  park  towards  the  village,  the  daugh- 
ter still  in  the  strained,  strung-up  silence  that  had 
fallen  upon  her.  Thej^  left  the  park  to  return  by 
another  route,  and  on  the  open  road  passed  a 
cottage. 

Betty's  eye  fell  upon  the  cottage  window.  With- 
in it  she  saw  a  young  girl  about  her  own  age, whom 
she  knew  by  sight,  sitting  in  a  chair  and  propped 
by  a  pillow.  The  girl's  face  was  covered  with 
scales,  which  glistened  in  the  sun.  She  was  a  con- 
valescent from  small-pox — a  disease  whose  prev- 
alence at  that  period  was  a  terror  of  which  we  at 
present  can  hardly  form  a  conception. 

An  idea  suddenly  energized  Betty's  ajiathetic 
features.  She  glanced  at  her  mother ;  Mrs.  Dor- 
nell had  been  looking  in  the  opposite  direction. 


32  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

Betty  said  that  she  wished  to  go  back  to  the  cot- 
tage for  a  moment  to  speak  to  a  girl  in  whom  she 
took  an  interest.  Mrs.  Dornell  appeared  suspicious, 
but  observing  that  the  cottage  had  no  back-door, 
and  that  Betty  could  not  escape  without  being 
seen,  she  allowed  the  carriage  to  be  stopped. 
Betty  ran  back  and  entered  the  cottage,  emerging 
again  in  about  a  minute,  and  resuming  her  seat  in 
the  carriage.  As  they  drove  on  she  fixed  her  eyes 
upon  her  mother  and  said,  "  There,  I  have  done  it 
now !"  Her  pale  face  was  stormy,  and  her  eyes 
full  of  waiting  tears. 

"  What  have  you  done  ?"  said  Mrs.  Dornell. 

*'  Nanny  Priddle  is  sick  of  the  small-pox,  and  1 
saw  her  at  the  window,  and  I  went  in  and  kissed 
her,  so  that  I  might  take  it ;  and  now  I  shall  have 
it,  and  he  won't  be  able  to  come  near  me  !" 

"  Wicked  girl !"  cries  her  mother.  "  Oh,  what 
am  I  to  do  !  What — bring  a  distemper  on  your- 
self, and  usurp  the  sacred  prerogative  of  God, 
because  you  can't  palate  the  man  you've  wedded  !" 

The  alarmed  woman  gave  orders  to  drive  home 
as  rapidly  as  possible,  and,  on  arriving,  Betty,  who 
was  by  this  time  also  somewhat  frightened  at  her 
own  enormity,  was  put  into  a  bath,  and  fumigated, 
and  treated  in  every  way  that  could  be  thought 
of  to  ward  off  the  dreadful  malady  that  in  a  rash 
moment  she  had  tried  to  acquire. 

There  was  now  a  double  reason  for  isolating 
the  rebellious  daughter  and  wife  in  her  own 
chamber,  and  there  she  accordingly  remained  for 


I 


THE   FIRST  COUNTESS   OP  WESSEX.  33 

the  rest  of  the  day,  and  the  days  that  followed, 
till  no  ill  results  seemed  likely  to  arise  from  her 
wilfulness. 

Meanwhile  the  first  letter  from  Reynard,  an- 
nouncing to  Mrs.  Dornell  and  her  husband  jointly 
that  he  was  coming  in  a  few  days,  had  sped  on  its 
way  to  Falls-Park.  It  was  directed  under  cover 
to  Tupcombe,  the  confidential  servant,  with  in- 
structions not  to  put  it  into  his  master's  hands 
till  he  had  been  refreshed  by  a  good  long  sleep. 
Tupcombe  much  regretted  his  commission,  letters 
sent  in  this  way  always  disturbing  the  Squire  ; 
but  guessing  that  it  would  be  infinitely  worse  in 
the  end  to  withhold  the  news  than  to  reveal  it, 
he  chose  his  time,  which  was  early  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  delivered  the  missive. 

Tiie  utmost  effect  that  Mrs.  Dornell  had  antici- 
pated from  the  message  was  a  peremptory  order 
from  her  husband  to  Reynard  to  hold  aloof  a  few 
months  longer.  What  the  Squire  really  did  was 
to  declare  that  lie  would  go  himself  and  confront 
Reynard  at  IJristol,  and  have  it  out  with  him 
tliere  by  word  of  mouth. 

"But,  master,"  said  Tupcombe,  "you  can't. 
You  cannot  get  out  of  bed." 

"  You  leave  the  room,  Tupcombe,  and  don't  say 
'can't'  before  me.  Have  Jerry  saddled  in  an 
houi'." 

The  long-tried  Tupcombe  thought  his  employer 
demented,  so  utterly  helpless  was  his  appearance 
9 


34         A  GROUP  OP  NOBLE  DAMES. 

just  then,  and  he  went  out  reluctantly.  No  sooner 
was  he  gone  than  the  Squire,  with  great  difficulty, 
stretched  himself  over  to  a  cabinet  by  the  bedside, 
unlocked  it,  and  took  out  a  small  bottle.  It  con- 
tained a  gout  specific,  against  whose  use  be  had 
been  repeatedly  warned  by  his  regular  physi- 
cian, but  whose  warning  he  now  cast  to  the 
winds. 

He  took  a  double  dose,  and  waited  half  an  hour. 
It  seemed  to  produce  no  effect.  He  then  poured 
out  a  treble  dose,  swallowed  it,  leaned  back  on  his 
pillow,  and  waited.  The  miracle  he  anticipated 
had  been  worked  at  last.  It  seemed  as  though 
the  second  draught  had  not  only  operated  with  its 
own  strength,  but  had  kindled  into  power  the  la- 
tent forces  of  the  first.  He  put  away  the  bottle 
and  rang  up  Tupcombe. 

Less  than  an  hour  later  one  of  the  house-maids, 
who  of  course  was  quite  aware  that  the  Squire's 
illness  was  serious,  was  surprised  to  hear  a  bold 
and  decided  step  descending  the  stairs  from  the 
direction  of  Mr.  Dornell's  room,  accompanied  by 
the  humming  of  a  tune.  She  knew  that  the  doc- 
tor had  not  paid  a  visit  that  morning,  and  that  it 
was  too  heavy  to  be  the  valet  or  any  other  man- 
servant. Looking  up,  she  saw  Squire  Dornell,  fully 
dressed,  descending  towards  her  in  his  drab  caped 
riding-coat  and  boots,  with  the  swinging,  easy 
movement  of  his  prime.  Her  face  expressed  her 
amazement. 

"What  the  devil  beest  looking  at?"  said  the 


I 


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IB 


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H 

O 
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^^£« 


THE    FIRST   COUNTESS    OF    WESSEX.  35 

Squire.  "  Did  you  never  see  a  man  walk  out  of 
his  house  before,  wench  ?" 

Resuming  his  humming — which  was  of  a  defi- 
ant sort — he  proceeded  to  the  library,  rang  the 
bell,  asked  if  the  horses  were  ready,  and  directed 
them  to  be  brought  round.  Ten  minutes  later  he 
rode  away  in  the  direction  of  Bristol,  Tupcombe 
behind  him,  trembling  at  what  these  movements 
might  portend. 

They  rode  on  through  the  pleasant  woodlands 
and  the  monotonous  straight  lanes  at  an  equal 
pace.  The  distance  traversed  might  have  been 
about  fifteen  miles  when  Tupcombe  could  per- 
ceive that  the  Squire  was  getting  tired — as  weary 
as  he  would  have  been  after  riding  three  times 
the  distance  ten  years  before.  However,  they 
reached  Bristol  without  any  mishap,  and  put  up 
at  the  Squire's  accustomed  inn,  Dornell  almost 
immediately  proceeded  on  foot  to  the  inn  which 
Reynard  had  given  as  his  address,  it  being  now 
about  four  o'clock, 

Reynard  had  already  dined — for  people  dined 
early  then  —  and  he  was  staying  in-doors.  He 
had  already  received  Mrs.  Dornell's  reply  to  his 
letter;  but,  before  acting  upon  her  advice  and 
starting  for  King's-IIintock,  he  made  up  his  mind 
to  wait  another  day,  that  Betty's  father  might  at 
least  have  time  to  write  to  him  if  so  minded. 
The  returned  traveller  much  desired  to  obtain  the 
Squire's  assent,  as  well  as  his  wife's,  to  the  pro- 
posed visit  to  his  bride,  that  nothing  might  seem 


36         A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

harsh  or  forced  in  his  method  of  taking  his  posi- 
tion as  one  of  the  family.  But  though  he  antici- 
pated some  sort  of  objection  from  his  father-in- 
law,  in  consequence  of  Mrs.  Dornell's  warning,  he 
was  surprised  at  the  announcement  of  the  Squire 
in  person. 

Stephen  Reynard  formed  the  completest  of  pos- 
sible contrasts  to  Dornell  as  they  stood  confront- 
ing each  other  in  the  best  parlor  of  the  Bristol 
tavern.  The  Squire,  hot-tempered,  gouty,  impul- 
sive, generous,  reckless  ;  the  younger  man,  pale, 
tall,  sedate,  self-possessed — a  man  of  the  world, 
fully  bearing  out  at  least  one  couplet  in  his  epi- 
taph, still  extant  in  King's-Hintock  church,  which 
places  in  the  inventory  of  his  good  qualities 

"  Engaging  Manners,  cultivated  Mind, 
Adoru'd  by  Letters,  and  in  Courts  refin'd." 

He  was  at  this  time  about  five-and-thirty,  though 
careful  living  and  an  even,  unemotional  tempera- 
ment caused  him  to  look  much  younger  than  his 
years. 

Squire  Dornell  plunged  into  his  errand  without 
much  ceremony  or  preface. 

"  I  am  your  humble  servant,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I 
have  read  your  letter  writ  to  my  wife  and  myself, 
and  considered  that  the  best  way  to  answer  it 
would  be  to  do  so  in  person." 

"  I  am  vastly  honored  by  your  visit,  sir,"  said 
Mr.  Stephen  Reynard,  bowing. 

"  Well,  what's  done  can't  be  undone,"   said 


THE    FIRST    COUNTESS    OF    WESSEX.  37 

Dornell,  "  tbough  it  was  mighty  early,  and  Avas 
no  doing  of  mine.  She's  your  wife  ;  and  there's 
an  end  on't.  But  in  brief,  sir,  she's  too  young  for 
you  to  claim  yet ;  we  mustn't  reckon  by  years  ; 
we  must  reckon  by  nature.  She's  still  a  girl ;  'tis 
onpolite  of  'ee  to  come  yet ;  next  year  will  be  full 
soon  enough  for  you  to  take  her  to  you." 

Now,  courteous  as  Reynard  could  bo,  he  was  a 
little  obstinate  when  his  resolution  had  once  been 
formed.  She  had  been  promised  him  by  her 
eighteenth  birthday  at  latest — sooner  if  she  were 
in  robust  health.  Her  mother  had  fixed  the  time 
on  her  own  judgment,  without  a  Avord  of  inter- 
ference on  his  part.  He  had  been  hanging  about 
foreign  courts  till  he  was  weary.  Betty  was  now 
a  woman,  if  she  would  ever  be  one,  and  there  was 
not,  in  his  mind,  the  shadow  of  an  excuse  for  put- 
ting him  off  longer.  Therefore,  fortified  as  he 
was  by  the  supi)ort  of  her  mother,  he  blandly  but 
firmly  told  the  Squire  that  he  had  been  willing  to 
waive  his  rights,  out  of  deference  to  her  parents, 
to  any  reasonable  extent,  but  must  noAV,  in  justice 
to  himself  and  her,  insist  on  maintaining  them. 
He  therefore,  since  she  had  not  come  to  meet  him, 
should  proceed  to  King's-Hiutock  in  a  few  days 
to  fetch  her. 

This  announcement,  in  spite  of  the  urbanity 
Avith  which  it  Avas  delivered,  set  Dornell  in  a  pas- 
sion. 

*'  Oh  dammy,  sir  ;  you  talk  about  rights,  you 
do,  after  stealing  her  aAvay,  a  mere  child,  against 


38  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

my  will  and  knowledge !  If  we'd  begged  and 
prayed  'ee  to  take  her,  you  could  say  no  more." 

"  Upon  my  honor,  your  charge  is  quite  baseless, 
sir,"  said  his  son-in-law.  "You  must  know  by 
this  time — or  if  you  do  not,  it  has  been  a  mon- 
strous cruel  injustice  to  me  that  I  should  have 
been  allowed  to  remain  in  your  mind  with  such  a 
stain  upon  my  character — you  must  know  that  I 
used  no  seductiveness  or  temptation  of  any  kind. 
Her  mother  assented ;  she  assented.  I  took  them 
at  their  word.  That  you  were  really  opposed  to 
the  marriage  was  not  known  to  me  till  after- 
wards." 

Dornell  professed  to  believe  not  a  word  of  it. 
"You  sha'n't  have  her  till  she's  dree  sixes  full — 
no  maid  ought  to  be  married  till  she's  dree  sixes ! 
— and  my  daughter  sha'n't  be  treated  out  of  na- 
ter !"  So  he  stormed  on  till  Tupcombe,  who  had 
been  alarmedly  listening  in  the  next  room,  entered 
suddenly,  declaring  to  Reynard  that  his  master's 
life  was  in  danger  if  the  interview  were  prolong- 
ed, he  being  subject  to  apoplectic  strokes  at  these 
crises.  Reynard  immediately  said  that  he  would 
be  the  last  to  wish  to  injure  Squire  Dornell,  and 
left  the  room,  and  as  soon  as  the  Squire  had  re- 
covered breath  and  equanimity,  he  went  out  of 
the  inn,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Tupcombe. 

Tupcombe  was  for  sleeping  in  Bristol  that  night, 
but  Dornell,  whose  energy  seemed  as  invincible  as 
it  was  sudden,  insisted  upon  mounting  and  getting 
back  as  far  as  Falls-Park,  to  continue  the  journey 


THE    FIRST   COUNTESS    OF   WESSEX,  39 

to  King's-Hintock  on  the  following  day.  At  five 
they  started,  and  took  the  southern  road  towards 
the  Mendip  Hills.  The  evening  was  dry  and 
windy,  and,  excepting  that  the  sun  did  not  shine, 
strongly  reminded  Tupcombe  of  the  evening  of 
that  March  month,  nearly  five  years  earlier,  when 
news  had  been  brought  to  King's-Hintock  Court 
of  the  child  Betty's  marriage  in  London — news 
which  had  produced  upon  Doruell  such  a  marked 
e£Fect  for  the  worse  ever  since,  and  indirectly  upon 
the  household  of  which  he  was  the  head.  Before 
that  time  the  winters  were  lively  at  Falls-Park,  as 
well  as  at  King's-Hintock,  although  the  Squire  had 
ceased  to  make  it  his  regular  residence.  Hunt- 
ing guests  and  shooting  guests  came  and  went, 
and  open  house  was  kept.  Tupcombe  disliked  the 
clever  courtier  who  had  put  a  stop  to  this  by  tak- 
ing away  from  the  Squire  the  only  treasure  he 
valued. 

It  grew  darker  with  their  progress  along  the 
lanes,  and  Tupcombe  discovered  from  Mr,  Dor- 
nell's  manner  of  riding  that  his  strength  was  giv- 
ing way;  and  spurring  his  own  horse  close  along- 
side, he  asked  him  how  he  felt, 

"  Oh,  bad  ;  d bad,  Tupcombe  !  I  can  hard- 
ly keep  my  seat,  I  shall  never  be  any  better,  I 
fear!     Have  we  passed  Three-Man-Gibbet  yet?" 

"  Not  yet  by  a  long  ways,  sir," 

"I  wish  we  had,  I  can  hardly  hold  on."  The 
Squire  could  not  repress  a  groan  now  and  then, 
and  Tupcombe  knew  he  was  in  great  pain.     "  I 


40         A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

wish  I  was  underground — that's  the  place  for 
such  fools  as  I !  I'd  gladly  be  there  if  it  were 
not  for  Mistress  Betty.  He's  coming  on  to 
King's-Hintock  to-morrow — he  won't  put  it  off 
any  longer  ;  he'll  set  out  and  reach  there  to-moi*- 
row  night,  without  stopping  at  Falls  ;  and  he'll 
take  her  unawares,  and  I  want  to  be  there  before 
him." 

"  I  hope  you  may  be  well  enough  to  do  it,  sir. 
But  really—" 

"  I  must,  Tupcombe !  You  don't  know  what 
my  trouble  is  ;  it  is  not  so  much  that  she  is  mar- 
ried to  this  man  without  my  agreeing — for,  after 
all,  there's  nothing  to  say  against  him,  so  far  as  I 
know  ;  but  that  she  don't  take  to  him  at  all,  seems 
to  fear  him — in  fact,  cares  nothing  about  him ; 
and  if  he  comes  forcing  himself  into  the  house 
upon  her,  why,  'twill  be  rank  cruelty.  Would 
to  the  Lord  something  would  happen  to  prevent 
him  !" 

How  they  reached  home  that  night  Tupcombe 
hardly  knew.  The  Squire  was  in  such  pain  that 
he  was  obliged  to  recline  uj^on  his  horse,  and 
Tuj^combe  was  afraid  every  moment  lest  he 
would  fall  into  the  road.  But  they  did  reach 
home  at  last,  and  Mr.  Dornell  was  instantly  as- 
sisted to  bed. 

Next  morning  it  was  obvious  that  he  could  not 
possibly  go  to  King's-Hintock  for  several  days  at 
least,  and  there  on  the  bed  he  lay,  cursing  his  in- 


THE    FIRST    COUNTESS    OF    WESSEX.  41 

ability  to  proceed  on  an  errand  so  personal  and  so 
delicate  that  no  emissary  could  perform  it.  What 
he  wished  to  do  Avas  to  ascertain  from  Betty's 
own  lips  if  her  aversion  to  Reynard  was  so  strong 
that  his  presence  would  be  positively  distasteful 
to  her.  Were  that  the  case,  he  would  have  borne 
her  away  bodily  on  the  saddle  behind  him. 

But  all  that  was  hindered  now,  and  he  repeated 
a  hundred  times  in  Tupcombe's  hearing,  and  in 
that  of  the  nurse  and  other  servants,  "I  wish  to 
God  something  would  happen  to  him !" 

This  sentiment,  reiterated  by  the  Squire  as  he 
tossed  in  the  agony  induced  by  the  powerful 
drugs  of  the  day  before,  entered  sharply  into  the 
soul  of  Tupcombe  and  of  all  who  were  attached 
to  the  house  of  Dornell,  as  distinct  from  the  house 
of  his  Avife  at  King's-IIintoek.  Tupcombe,  who 
was  an  excitable  man,  was  hardly  less  disquiet- 
ed by  the  thought  of  Reynard's  return  than  the 
Squire  himself  was.  As  the  week  drew  on,  and 
the  afternoon  advanced  at  which  Reynard  would, 
in  all  probability,  be  i)assing  near  Falls  on  his 
way  to  the  Court,  the  Squire's  feelings  became 
acuter,  and  the  responsive  Tui)combe  could  hard- 
ly bear  to  come  near  him.  Ilaving  left  him  in 
the  hands  of  the  doctor,  the  former  went  out  upon 
the  lawn,  for  he  could  hardly  broatlie  in  the  con- 
tagion of  excitement  caught  from  the  employer 
who  had  virtually  made  him  his  confidant.  He 
had  lived  with  the  Dornells  from  his  boyhood, 
had  been  born  under  the  shadow  of  their  walls  ; 


42  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

his  whole  life  was  annexed  and  welded  to  the  life 
of  the  family  in  a  degree  which  has  no  counter- 
part in  these  latter  days. 

He  was  summoned  in-doors,  and  learned  that  it 
had  been  decided  to  send  for  Mrs.  Dornell ;  her 
husband  was  in  great  danger.  There  were  two 
or  three  who  could  have  acted  as  messenger,  but 
Dornell  wished  Tupcombe  to  go,  the  reason  show- 
ing itself  when,  Tupcombe  being  ready  to  start, 
Squire  Dornell  summoned  him  to  his  chamber 
and  leaned  down  so  that  he  could  whisper  in  his 
ear  : 

"Put  Peggy  along  smart,  Tupcombe,  and  get 
there  before  him,  you  know — before  him.  This  is 
the  day  he  fixed.  He  has  not  passed  Falls  cross- 
roads yet.  If  you  can  do  that  you  will  be  able  to 
get  Betty  to  come — d'j^e  see  ? — after  her  mother 
has  started  ;  she'll  have  a  reason  for  not  waiting 
for  him.  Bring  her  by  the  lower  road  —  he'll 
go  by  the  upper.  Your  business  is  to  make  'em 
miss  each  other — d'ye  see  ? — but  that's  a  thing  I 
couldn't  write  down." 

Five  minutes  after,  Tupcombe  was  astride  the 
horse  and  on  his  way — the  way  he  had  followed 
so  many  times  since  his  master,  a  florid  young 
countryman,  had  first  gone  wooing  to  King's- 
Hintock  Court.  As  soon  as  he  had  crossed  the 
hills  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  the  manor, 
the  road  lay  over  a  plain,  where  it  ran  in  long, 
straight  stretches  for  several  miles.  In  the  best 
of  times,  when  all  had  been  gay  in  the  united 


THE   FIRST   COUNTESS    OF    WESSEX.  43 

houses,  that  part  of  the  road  had  seemed  tedious. 
It  was  gloomy  in  the  extreme  now  that  he  pur- 
sued it,  at  night  and  alone,  on  such  an  errand. 

He  rode  and  brooded.  If  the  Squire  were  to 
die,  he,  Tupcombe,  would  be  alone  in  the  world 
and  friendless,  for  he  was  no  favorite  with  Mrs. 
Dornell ;  and  to  find  himself  bafiled,  after  all,  in 
what  he  had  set  his  mind  on,  would  probably  kill 
the  Squire.  Thinking  thus,  Tupcombe  stopped 
his  horse  every  now  and  then,  and  listened  for 
the  coming  husband.  The  time  was  drawing  on 
to  the  moment  when  Reynard  might  be  expected 
to  pass  along  this  very  route.  He  had  Avatched 
the  road  well  during  the  afternoon,  and  had  in- 
quired of  the  tavern-keepers  as  he  came  up  to 
each,  and  he  was  convinced  that  the  premature 
descent  of  the  stranger-husband  u]ion  his  young 
mistress  had  not  been  made  by  this  highway  as 
yet. 

Besides  the  girl's  mother,  Tupcombe  was  the 
only  member  of  the  household  who  suspected  Bet- 
ty's tender  feelings  towards  young  Phelipson,  so 
unhappily  generated  on  her  return  from  school; 
and  he  could  therefore  imagine,  even  better  than 
her  fond  father,  what  would  be  her  emotions  on 
the  sudden  announcement  of  Reynard's  advent 
that  evening  at  King's-Ilintock  Court. 

So  he  rode  and  rode,  desponding  and  hopeful 
by  turns.  He  felt  assured  that,  unless  in  the  un- 
fortunate event  of  the  almost  immediate  arrival 
of  her  son-in-law  at  his  own  heels,  Mrs.  Dornell 


44  A    GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

would  not  be  .able  to  hinder  Betty's  departure  for 
her  father's  bedside. 

It  was  about  nine  o'clock  that,  having  put 
twenty  miles  of  country  behind  him,  he  turned 
in  at  the  lodge-gate  nearest  to  Ivell  and  King's- 
Hintock  village,  and  pursued  the  long  north  drive 
— itself  much  like  a  turnpike  road — which  led 
thence  through  the  park  to  the  Court.  Though 
there  were  so  many  trees  in  King's-Hintock  park, 
few  bordered  the  carriage  roadway  ;  he  could  see 
it  stretching  ahead  in  the  pale  night  light  like  an 
unrolled  deal  shaving.  Presently  the  irregular 
frontage  of  the  house  came  in  view,  of  great  ex- 
tent, but  low,  except  where  it  rose  into  the  out- 
lines of  a  broad,  square  tower. 

As  Tupcombe  approached  he  rode  aside  upon 
the  grass,  to  make  sure,  if  possible,  that  he  was 
the  first  comer,  before  letting  his  presence  be 
known.  The  Court  was  dark  and  sleepy,  in  no 
respect  as  if  a  bridegroom  were  about  to  arrive. 

While  pausing  he  distinctly  heard  the  tread  of 
a  horse  upon  the  track  behind  him,  and  for  a 
moment  despaired  of  arriving  in  time  :  here,  sure- 
ly, was  Reynard  !  Pulling  up  closer  to  the  dens- 
est tree  at  hand  he  waited,  and  found  he  had 
retreated  none  too  soon,  for  the  second  rider 
avoided  the  gravel  also,  and  passed  quite  close 
to  him.  In  the  profile  he  recognized  young  Phe- 
lipson. 

Before  Tupcombe  could  think  what  to  do,  Phe- 
lipson  had  gone  on ;  but  not  to  the  door  of  the 


7: 


O 


f^«J?;-^ 


THE    FIRST   COUNTESS    OP   WESSKX.  45 

house.  Swerving  to  the  left,  he  passed  round  to 
the  east  angle,  where,  as  Tupcombe  knew,  were 
situated  Betty's  apartments.  Dismounting,  he 
left  the  horse  tethered  to  a  hanging  bough,  and 
walked  on  to  the  house. 

Suddenly  his  eye  caught  sight  of  an  object 
which  explained  the  position  immediately.  It 
was  a  ladder  stretching  from  beneath  the  trees, 
which  there  came  pretty  close  to  the  house,  up 
to  a  first-floor  window — one  which  lighted  Miss 
Betty's  rooms.  Yes,  it  was  Betty's  chamber  ;  he 
knew  every  room  in  the  house  well. 

The  young  horseman  who  had  passed  him,  hav- 
ing evidently  left  his  steed  somewhere  under 
the  trees  also,  was  perceptible  at  the  top  of 
the  ladder,  immediately  outside  Betty's  window. 
While  Tupcombe  watched,  a  cloaked  female  fig- 
ure stepped  timidly  o\er  the  sill,  and  the  two 
cautiously  descended,  one  before  the  other,  the 
young  man's  arras  enclosing  the  young  woman 
between  his  grasp  of  the  ladder,  so  that  she  could 
not  fall.  As  soon  as  they  reached  the  bottom, 
young  Phelipson  quickly  removed  the  ladder  and 
hid  it  under  the  bushes.  The  pair  disappeared; 
till,  in  a  few  minutes,  Tupcombe  could  discern  a 
horse  emerging  from  a  remoter  part  of  the  um- 
brage. The  horse  carried  double,  the  girl  being 
on  a  pillion  behind  her  lover. 

Tupcombe  hardly  knew  what  to  do  or  think  ; 
yet,  though  this  was  not  exactly  the  kind  of  flight 
that  had  been  intended,  she  had  certainly  escaped. 


46  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

He  went  back  to  his  own  animal,  and  rode  round 
to  the  servants'  door,  where  he  delivered  the  let- 
ter for  Mrs.  Dornell.  To  leave  a  verbal  message 
for  Betty  was  now  impossible. 

The  Court  servants  desired  him  to  stay  over 
the  night,  but  he  would  not  do  so,  desiring  to  get 
back  to  the  Squire  as  soon  as  possible  and  tell 
what  he  had  seen.  Whether  he  ought  not  to 
have  intercepted  the  young  people,  and  carried 
off  Betty  himself  to  her  father,  he  did  not  know. 
However,  it  was  too  late  to  think  of  that  now, 
and  without  wetting  his  lips  or  swallowing  a 
crumb,  Tupcombe  turned  his  back  upon  King's- 
Hintock  Court. 

It  was  not  till  he  had  advanced  a  considerable 
distance  on  his  way  homeward  that,  halting  un- 
der the  lantern  of  a  road-side  inn  while  the  horse 
was  watered,  there  came  a  traveller  from  the  op- 
posite direction  in  a  hired  coach  ;  the  lantern  lit 
the  stranger's  face  as  he  passed  along  and  drop- 
ped into  the  shade.  Tupcombe  exulted  for  the 
moment,  though  he  could  hardly  have  justified 
his  exultation.  The  belated  traveller  was  Rey- 
nard ;  and  another  had  stepped  in  before  him. 

You  may  now  be  willing  to  know  of  the  fort- 
unes of  Miss  Betty.  Left  much  to  herself  through 
the  intervening  days,  she  had  ample  time  to 
brood  over  her  desperate  attempt  at  the  strata- 
gem of  infection — thwarted,  apparently,  by  her 
mother's  promptitude.  In  what  other  way  to 
gain  time  she  could  not  think.    Thus  drew  on  the 


THE   FIRST   COUNTESS    OP   WESSEX.  47 

day  and  the  hour  of  the  evening  on  which  her 
husband  was  expected  to  announce  himself. 

At  some  period  after  dark,  when  she  could  not 
tell,  a  tap  at  the  window,  twice  and  thrice  re- 
peated, became  audible.  It  caused  her  to  start 
up,  for  the  only  visitant  in  her  mind  was  the  one 
whose  advances  she  had  so  feared  as  to  risk  health 
and  life  to  repel  them.  She  crept  to  the  window, 
and  heard  a  whisper  without, 

"  It  is  I — Charley,"  said  the  voice, 

Betty's  face  fired  Avith  excitement.  She  had 
latterly  begun  to  doubt  her  admirer's  stanch- 
ness,  fancying  his  love  to  be  going  off  in  mere 
attentions  which  neither  committed  him  nor  her- 
self very  deeply.  She  opened  the  window,  saying, 
in  a  joyous  whisper,  "  Oh,  Charley;  I  thought  you 
had  deserted  me  quite  !" 

He  assured  her  he  had  not  done  that,  and  that 
he  had  a  horse  in  waiting,  if  she  would  ride  off 
with  him,  "  You  must  come  quickly,"  he  said  ; 
"for  Reynard's  on  the  way!" 

To  throw  a  cloak  round  herself  was  the  work 
of  a  moment,  and  assuring  herself  that  her  door 
was  locked  against  a  surprise,  she  climbed  over 
the  window -sill  and  descended  with  him  as  we 
have  seen. 

Her  mother  meanwhile,  having  received  Tup- 
combe's  note,  found  the  news  of  her  husband's 
illness  so  serious  as  to  displace  her  thoughts  of 
the  coming  son-in-law,  and  she  hastened  to  tell 
her  daughter  of  the  Squire's  dangerous  condition, 


48  A   GROUP    OP    NOBLE   DAMES. 

thinkinof  it  misrht  be  desirable  to  take  her  to  her 
father's  bedside.  On  trying  the  door  of  the  girl's 
room,  she  found  it  still  locked.  Mrs.  Dornell 
called,  but  there  was  no  answer.  Full  of  misgiv- 
ings, she  privately  fetched  the  old  house-steward 
and  bade  him  burst  open  the  door — an  order  by 
no  means  easy  to  execute,  the  joinery  of  the  Court 
being  massively  constructed.  However,  the  lock 
sprang  open  at  last,  and  she  entered  Betty's  cham- 
ber, only  to  find  the  window  unfastened  and  the 
bird  flown. 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Dornell  was  staggered. 
Then  it  occurred  to  her  that  Betty  might  have 
privately  obtained  from  Tupcombe  the  news  of 
her  father's  serious  illness,  and,  fearing  she  might 
be  kept  back  to  meet  her  husband,  have  gone  off 
with  that  obstinate  and  biassed  servitor  to  Falls- 
Park.  The  more  she  thought  it  over  the  more 
probable  did  the  supposition  appear  ;  and  bind- 
ing her  own  headman  to  secrecy  as  to  Betty's 
movements,  whether  as  she  conjectured  or  other- 
wise, Mrs.  Dornell  herself  prepared  to  set  out. 

She  had  no  suspicion  how  seriously  her  hus- 
band's malady  had  been  aggravated  by  his  ride 
to  Bristol,  and  thought  more  of  Betty's  affairs 
than  of  her  own.  That  Betty's  husband  should 
arrive  by  some  other  road  to-night,  and  find  nei- 
ther wife  nor  mother-in-law  to  receive  him,  and 
no  explanation  of  their  absence,  was  possible  ; 
but  never  forgetting  chances,  Mrs.  Dornell  as  she 
journeyed  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  highway 


THE    FIRST   COUNTESS    OP   WESSEX.  49 

on  the  off-side,  where,  before  she  had  reached 
the  town  of  Ivell,  the  hired  coach  containing 
Stephen  Reynard  flashed  into  the  lamplight  of 
her  own  carriage. 

Mrs.  Dornell's  coachman  pulled  up,  in  obedi- 
ence to  a  direction  she  had  given  him  at  starting  ; 
the  other  coach  was  hailed,  a  few  words  passed, 
and  Reynard  alighted  and  came  to  Mrs.  Dornell's 
carriage- window. 

"  Come  inside,"  says  she.  "  I  Avant  to  speak 
privately"  to  you.     Why  are  you  so  late  ?" 

"  One  hinderance  and  another,"  says  he.  "  I 
meant  to  be  at  the  Court  by  eight  at  latest.  My 
gratitude  for  your  letter.     I  hope — " 

"  You  must  not  try  to  see  Betty  yet,"  said  she. 
"There  be  far  other  and  newer  reasons  against 
your  seeing  her  now  than  there  were  when  I 
wrote." 

The  circumstances  were  such  that  Mrs.  Dornell 
could  not  possibly  conceal  them  entirely;  nothing 
short  of  knowing  some  of  the  facts  would  prevent 
his  blindly  acting  in  a  manner  which  might  be 
fatal  to  the  future.  Moreover,  there  are  times 
when  deeper  intriguers  than  Mrs.  Dornell  feel 
that  they  must  let  out  a  few  truths,  if  only  in 
self-indulgence.  So  she  told  so  much  of  recent 
surprises  as  that  Betty's  heart  had  been  attracted 
by  another  image  than  his,  and  that  his  insisting 
on  visiting  her  now  miglit  drive  the  girl  to  des- 
peration. "  Betty  has,  in  fact,  rushed  off  to  her 
father  to  avoid  you,"  she  said.  "  But,  if  you 
4 


50  A   GROUP   OP  NOBLE   DAMES. 

wait,  she  will  soon  forget  this  young  man,  and 
you  will  have  nothing  to  fear." 

As  a  woman  and  a  mother  she  could  go  no  fur- 
ther, and  Betty's  desperate  attempt  to  infect  her- 
self the  week  before  as  a  means  of  repelling  him, 
together  with  the  alarming  possibility  that,  after 
all,  she  had  not  gone  to  her  father  but  to  her 
lover,  was  not  revealed, 

"  Well,"  sighed  the  diplomatist,  in  a  tone  unex- 
pectedly quiet,  "  such  things  have  been  known  be- 
fore. After  all,  she  may  prefer  me  to  him  some 
day,  when  she  reflects  how  very  differently  I 
might  have  acted  than  I  am  going  to  act  towards 
her.  But  I'll  say  no  more  about  that  now.  I  can 
have  a  bed  at  your  house  for  to-night  ?" 

"To-night,  certainly.  And  you  leave  to-mor- 
row morning  early?"  She  spoke  anxiously,  for 
on  no  account  did  she  wish  him  to  make  further 
discoveries.  "  My  husband  is  so  seriously  ill,"  she 
continued,  "  that  my  absence  and  Betty's  on  your 
arrival  is  naturally  accounted  for." 

He  promised  to  leave  early,  and  to  write  to 
her  soon.  "  And  when  I  think  the  time  is  ripe," 
he  said,  "I'll  write  to  her.  I  may  have  some- 
thing to  tell  her  that  will  bring  her  to  gracious- 
ness." 

It  was  about  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  when 
Mrs.  Dornell  reached  Falls-Park.  A  double  blow 
awaited  her  there.  Betty  had  not  arrived  ;  her 
flight  had  been  elsewhither ;  and  her  stricken 
mother  divined  with  whom.    She  ascended  to  the 


THE   FIRST   COUNTESS    OF   WESSEX.  51 

bedside  of  her  husband,  where,  to  her  concern,  she 
found  that  the  physician  had  given  up  all  hope. 
The  Squire  was  sinking,  and  his  extreme  weak- 
ness had  almost  changed  his  character,  except  in 
the  particular  that  his  old  obstinacy  sustained  him 
in  a  refusal  to  see  a  clergyman.  He  shed  tears  at 
the  least  word,  and  sobbed  at  the  sight  of  his 
wife.  He  asked  for  Betty,  and  it  was  with  a 
heavy  heart  that  Mrs.  Dornell  told  him  that  the 
girl  had  not  accompanied  her. 

"  He  is  not  keeping  her  away  ?" 

"  No,  no.  He  is  going  back — he  is  not  coming 
to  her  for  some  time." 

"Then  what  is  detaining  her — cruel,  neglectful 
maid !" 

"  No,  no,  Thomas  ;  she  is —  She  could  not 
come." 

"How's  that?" 

Somehow  the  solemnity  of  these  last  moments 
of  his  gave  him  inquisitorial  power,  and  the  too 
cold  wife  could  not  conceal  from  him  the  flight 
which  had  taken  place  from  King's-Hintock  that 
night. 

To  her  amazement,  the  effect  upon  him  was 
electrical. 

"  What— Betty— a  trump  after  all  ?  Hurrah  ! 
She's  her  father's  own  maid  !  She's  game  !  She 
knew  he  was  her  father's  own  choice  !  She  vowed 
that  my  man  should  win  !  AVell  done.  Bet ! — 
haw  !  haw  !     Hurrah  !" 

He  had  raised  himself  in  bed  by  starts  as  he 


62  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAME^, 

spoke,  and  now  fell  back  exhausted.  He  never 
uttered  another  word,  and  died  before  the  dawn. 
People  said  there  had  not  been  such  an  ungenteel 
death  in  a  good  county  family  for  years. 

Now  I  will  go  back  to  the  time  of  Betty's  rid- 
ing off  on  the  pillion  behind  her  lover.  They  left 
the  park  by  an  obscure  gate  to  the  east,  and  pres- 
ently found  themselves  in  the  lonely  and  solitary 
length  of  the  old  Roman  road  now  called  Long- 
Ash  Lane. 

By  this  time  they  were  rather  alarmed  at  their 
own  performance,  for  they  were  both  young  and 
inexperienced.  Hence  they  proceeded  almost  in 
silence  till  they  came  to  a  mean  road -side  inn 
which  was  not  yet  closed  ;  when  Betty,  who  had 
held  on  to  him  with  much  misgivings  all  this 
while,  felt  dreadfully  unwell,  and  said  she  thought 
she  would  like  to  get  down. 

They  accordingly  dismounted  from  the  jaded 
animal  that  had  brought  them,  and  were  shown 
into  a  small  dark  parlor,  where  they  stood  side  by 
side  awkwardly,  like  the  fugitives  they  were.  A 
light  was  brought,  and  when  they  were  left  alone 
Betty  threw  off  the  cloak  which  had  enveloped 
her.  No  sooner  did  young  Phelijoson  see  her  face 
than  he  uttered  an  alarmed  exclamation. 

"  Why,  Lord,  Lord,  you  are  sickening  for  the 
small-pox  !"  he  cried. 

"  Oh— I  forgot !"  faltered  Betty.  And  then 
she  informed  him  that,  on  hearing  of  her  hus- 


TH£   FIRST   COUNTESS    OF    WESSEX.  53 

band's  approach  the  week  before,  in  a  desperate 
attempt  to  keep  him  from  her  side  she  had  tried 
to  imbibe  the  infection — an  act  which,  till  this 
moment,  she  had  supposed  to  have  been  ineffect- 
ual, imagining  her  feverishness  to  be  the  result 
of  her  excitement. 

The  effect  of  this  discovery  upon  young  Phe- 
lipson  was  overwhelming.  Better-seasoned  men 
than  he  would  not  have  been  proof  against  it,  and 
he  was  only  a  little  over  her  own  age.  "And 
you've  been  holding  on  to  me  !"  he  said.  "And 
suppose  you  get  worse,  and  we  both  have  it,  what 
shall  we  do  ?  Won't  you  be  a  fright  in  a  month 
or  two,  poor,  poor  Betty!" 

In  his  horror  he  attempted  to  laugh,  but  the 
laugh  ended  in  a  weakly  giggle.  She  was  more 
woman  than  girl  by  this  time,  and  realized  his 
feeling. 

"  What — in  trying  to  keep  off  him,  I  keep  off 
you?"  she  said,  miserably.  "Do  you  hate  me 
because  I  am  going  to  be  ugly  and  ill  ?" 

"  Oh — no,  no  !"  he  said,  soothingly.  "  But  I — I 
am  thinking  if  it  is  quite  right  for  us  to  do  this. 
You  see,  dear  Betty,  if  you  was  not  married  it 
would  be  different.  You  are  not  in  honor  mar- 
ried to  him  we've  often  said  ;  still  you  are  his  by 
law,  and  you  can't  be  mine  while  he's  alive.  And 
with  this  terrible  sickness  coming  on,  perhaps  you 
had  better  let  me  take  you  back,  and — climb  in  at 
the  window  again." 

"  Is  this  your  love  ?"  said  Betty,  reproachfully. 


54  A   GROUP    OP   NOBLE    DAMES. 

"  Oh,  if  you  was  sickening  for  the  plague  itself, 
and  going  to  be  as  ugly  as  the  Ooser  in  the 
church-vestry,  I  wouldn't — " 

"  No,  no,  you  mistake,  upon  my  soul !" 

But  Betty,  with  a  swollen  heart,  had  rewrapped 
herself  and  gone  out  of  the  door.  The  horse  was 
still  standing  there.  She  mounted  by  the  help 
of  the  upping  -  stock,  and  when  he  had  followed 
her  she  said:  "Do  not  come  near  me,  Charley; 
but  please  lead  the  horse,  so  that  if  you've  not 
caught  anything  already  you'll  not  catch  it  going 
back.  After  all,  what  keeps  off  you  may  keep 
off  him.     Now  onward." 

He  did  not  resist  her  command,  and  back  they 
went  by  the  way  they  had  come,  Betty  shedding 
bitter  tears  at  the  retribution  she  had  already 
brought  upon  herself  ;  for  though  she  had  re- 
proached Phelipson,  she  was  stanch  enough  not 
to  blame  him  in  her  secret  heart  for  showing 
that  his  love  was  only  skin-deep.  The  hoi'se  was 
stopped  in  the  plantation,  and  they  walked  silent- 
ly to  the  lawn,  reaching  the  bushes  wherein  the 
ladder  still  lay. 

"  Will  you  put  it  up  for  me  ?"  she  asked,  mourn- 
fully. 

He  re-erected  the  ladder  without  a  word ;  but 
when  she  approached  to  ascend  he  said,  "  Good- 
bye, Betty  !" 

"Good-bye!"  said  she,  and  involuntarily  turned 
her  face  towards  his.  He  hung  back  from  im- 
printing the  expected  kiss,  at  which  Betty  started 


THE   FIKST   COUNTESS    OF   WE88EX.  55 

as  if  she  had  received  a  poignant  wound.  She 
moved  away  so  suddenly  that  he  hardly  had  time 
to  follow  her  up  the  ladder  to  prevent  her  falling. 

"Tell  your  mother  to  get  the  doctor  at  once !" 
he  said,  anxiously. 

She  stepped  in  without  looking  behind  ;  he  de- 
scended, withdrew  the  ladder,  and  went  away. 

Alone  in  her  chamber,  Betty  flung  herself  upon 
her  face  on  the  bed,  and  burst  into  shaking  sobs. 
Yet  she  would  not  admit  to  herself  that  her  lover's 
conduct  was  unreasonable — only  that  her  rash  act 
of  the  previous  week  had  been  wrong.  No  one 
had  heard  her  enter,  and  she  was  too  worn  out 
in  body  and  mind  to  think  or  care  about  medi- 
cal aid.  In  an  hour  or  so  she  felt  j^et  more  un- 
well, positively  ill  ;  and  nobody  coming  to  her  at 
the  usual  bedtime,  she  looked  towards  the  door. 
Marks  of  the  lock  having  been  forced  were  vis- 
ible, and  this  made  her  chary  of  summoning  a 
servant.  She  opened  the  door  cautiously  and  sal- 
lied forth  down-stairs. 

In  the  dining-parlor,  as  it  was  called,  the  now 
sick  and  sorry  Betty  was  startled  to  see,  at  that 
late  hour,  not  her  mother,  but  a  man  sitting,  calm- 
ly finishing  his  supper.  There  was  no  servant  in 
the  room.  He  turned,  and  she  recognized  her 
husband. 

"  Where's  my  mamma  ?"  she  demanded,  without 
preface. 

"  Gone  to  your  father's.  Is  that — "  He  stopped, 
aghast. 


66         A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

"Yes,  sir.  This  spotted  object  is  your  wife! 
I've  done  it  because  I  don't  want  you  to  come 
near  me  !" 

He  was  sixteen  years  her  senior — old  enough 
to  be  compassionate.  "  My  poor  child,  you  must 
get  to  bed  directly !  Don't  be  afraid  of  me — 
I'll  carry  you  up-stairs  and  send  for  a  doctor  in- 
stantly." 

"  Ah,  you  don't  know  what  I  am  !"  she  cried. 
"I  had  a  lover  once  ;  but  now  he's  gone  !  'Twasn't 
I  who  deserted  him;  he  has  deserted  me.  Because 
I  am  ill  he  wouldn't  kiss  me,  though  I  wanted  him 
to!" 

"Wouldn't  he?  Then  he  was  a  very  poor, 
slack-twisted  sort  of  fellow.  Betty,  I^ve  never 
kissed  you  since  you  stood  beside  me  as  my  little 
wife,  twelve  years  and  a  half  old  !  May  I  kiss 
you  now  ?" 

Though  Betty  by  no  means  desired  his  kisses, 
she  had  enough  of  the  spirit  of  Cunigonde,  in 
Schiller's  ballad,  to  test  his  daring.  "  If  you 
have  courage  to  venture,  yes  sir,"  said  she.  "But 
you  may  die  for  it,  mind  !" 

He  came  up  to  her  and  imprinted  a  deliberate 
kiss  full  upon  her  mouth,  sayiug,  "May  many 
others  follow." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  hastily  withdrew, 
though  secretly  pleased  at  his  hardihood.  The 
excitement  had  supported  her  for  the  few  min- 
utes she  had  passed  in  his  presence,  and  she  could 
hardly  drag  herself  back  to  her  room.     Her  bus- 


THE    FIRST    COUNTESS    OP    AVKSSEX.  6^ 

band  summoned  the  servants,  and,  sending  them 
to  her  assistance,  went  off  himself  for  a  doctor. 

The  next  morning  Reynard  waited  at  the  court 
till  he  had  learned  from  the  medical  man  that 
Betty's  attack  promised  to  be  a  very  light  one, 
or,  as  it  was  expressed,  "very  fine;"  and  in  tak- 
ing his  leave  sent  up  a  note  to  her : 

"  Now  I  must  be  gone.  I  promised  your  moth- 
er I  would  not  see  you  yet,  and  she  may  be  an- 
gered if  she  finds  me  here.  Promise  to  see  me 
as  soon  as  you  are  well  ?" 

He  was  of  all  men  then  living  one  of  the  best 
able  to  cope  with  such  an  untimely  situation  as 
this.  A  contriving,  sagacious,  gentle -mannered 
man,  a  philosopher  who  saw  that  the  only  con- 
stant attribute  of  life  is  change,  he  held  that,  as 
long  as  she  lives,  there  is  nothing  finite  in  the  most 
impassioned  attitude  a  woman  may  take  up.  In 
twelve  months  his  girl- wife's  recent  infatuation 
might  be  as  distasteful  to  her  mind  as  it  was  now 
to  his  own.  In  a  few  years  her  very  flesh  would 
change — so  said  the  scientific  ;  her  spirit,  so  much 
more  ephemeral,  was  capable  of  changing  in  one. 
Betty  was  his,  and  it  became  a  mere  question  of 
means  how  to  effect  that  change. 

During  the  day  Mrs.  Dornell,  having  closed 
her  husband's  eyes,  returned  to  the  Court.  She 
was  truly  relieved  to  find  Betty  there,  even 
though  on  a  bed  of  sickness.  The  disease  ran 
its  course,  and  in  due  time  Betty  became  conva- 
lescent, without  having  suffered  dcej)ly  for  her 


58  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

rashness,  one  little  speck  beneath  her  ear,  and  one 
beneath  her  chin,  being  all  the  marks  she  retained. 

The  Squire's  body  was  not  brought  back  to 
King's-Hintock.  Where  he  was  born,  and  where 
he  had  lived  before  wedding  his  Sue,  there  he 
had  wished  to  be  buried.  No  sooner  had  she  lost 
him  than  Mrs.  Dornell,  like  certain  other  wives, 
though  she  had  never  shown  any  great  affection 
for  him  while  he  lived,  awoke  suddenly  to  his 
many  virtues,  and  zealously  embraced  his  opinion 
about  delaying  Betty's  union  with  her  husband, 
which  she  had  formerly  combated  strenuously. 
"  Poor  man,  how  right  he  was,  and  how  wrong 
was  I !"  Eighteen  was  certainly  the  lowest  age 
at  which  Mr.  Reynard  should  claim  her  child — 
nay,  it  was  too  low !     Far  too  low  ! 

So  desirous  was  she  of  honoring  her  lamented 
husband's  sentiments  in  this  respect,  that  she 
wrote  to  her  son-in-law  suggesting  that,  partly 
on  account  of  Betty's  sorrow  for  her  father's  loss, 
and  out  of  consideration  for  his  known  wishes 
for  delay,  Betty  should  not  be  taken  from  her  till 
her  nineteenth  birthday. 

However  much  or  little  Stephen  Reynard  might 
have  been  to  blame  in  his  marriage,  the  patient 
man  now  almost  deserved  to  be  pitied.  First 
Betty's  skittishness ;  now  her  mother's  remorse- 
ful volte-face:  it  was  enough  to  exasperate  any- 
body; and  he  wrote  to  the  widow  in  a  tone  which 
led  to  a  little  coolness  between  those  hitherto  firm 
friends.     However,  knowing  that  he  had  a  wife 


THE   FIRST   COUNTESS   OF   AVESSEX.  59 

not  to  claim  but  to  win,  and  that  young  Phelip- 
son  had  been  packed  off  to  sea  by  his  parents, 
Stephen  was  complaisant  to  a  degree,  returning 
to  London,  and  holding  quite  aloof  from  Betty 
and  her  mother,  who  remained  for  the  present  in 
the  country.  In  town  he  had  a  mild  visitation 
of  the  distemper  he  had  taken  from  Betty,  and 
in  writing  to  her  he  took  care  not  to  dwell  upon 
its  mildness.  It  was  now  that  Betty  began  to 
pity  him  for  what  she  had  inflicted  upon  him  by 
the  kiss,  and  her  correspondence  acquired  a  dis- 
tinct flavor  of  kindness  thenceforward. 

Owing  to  his  rebuffs,  Reynard  had  grown  to 
be  truly  in  love  with  Betty  in  his  mild,  j^lacid, 
durable  way — in  that  way  which,  perhaps,  upon 
the  whole,  tends  most  generally  to  the  woman's 
comfort  under  the  institution  of  marriage,  if  not 
particularly  to  her  ecstasy.  Mrs.  Dornell's  exag- 
geration of  her  husband's  wish  for  delay  in  their 
living  together  was  inconvenient,  but  he  would 
not  openly  infringe  it.  He  wrote  tenderly  to 
Betty,  and  soon  announced  that  he  had  a  little 
surprise  in  store  for  her.  The  secret  was  that 
the  King  had  been  graciously  pleased  to  inform 
him  privately,  through  a  relation,  that  His  Maj- 
esty was  about  to  offer  him  a  Barony.  Would 
she  like  the  title  to  be  Ivell  ?  Moreover,  he  had 
reasons  for  knowing  that  in  a  few  years  the  dig- 
nity would  be  raised  to  that  of  an  Earl,  for  which 
creation  he  thought  the  title  of  Wessex  would  be 
eminently   suitable,  considering   the   position  of 


60  A    GROUP    OF    NOBLE    DAMES. 

much  of  their  property.  As  Lady  Ivell,  there- 
fore, and  future  Countess  of  Wessex,  he  should 
beg  leave  to  offer  her  his  heart  a  third  time. 

He  did  not  add,  as  he  might  have  added,  how 
greatly  the  consideration  of  the  enormous  estates 
at  King's -Hintock  and  elsewhere  which  Betty 
would  inherit,  and  her  children  after  her,  had 
conduced  to  this  desirable  honor. 

Whether  the  impending  titles  had  really  any 
effect  upon  Betty's  regard  for  him  I  cannot  state, 
for  she  was  one  of  those  close  characters  who 
never  let  their  minds  be  known  upon  anything. 
That  such  honor  was  absolutely  unexpected  by 
her  from  such  a  quarter  is,  however,  certain  ;  and 
she  could  not  deny  that  Stephen  had  shown  her 
kindness,  forbearance,  even  magnanimity;  had 
forgiven  her  for  an  errant  passion  which  he 
might  with  some  reason  have  denounced,  notwith- 
standing her  cruel  position  as  a  child  entrapped 
into  marriage  ere  able  to  understand  its  bearings. 

Her  mother,  in  her  grief  and  remorse  for  the 
loveless  life  she  had  led  with  her  rough,  though 
open-hearted,  husband,  made  now  a  creed  of  his 
merest  whim ;  and  continued  to  insist  that,  out 
of  respect  to  his  known  desire,  her  son-in-law 
should  not  reside  with  Betty  till  the  girl's  father 
had  been  dead  a  year  at  least,  at  which  time  the 
girl  would  still  be  under  nineteen.  Letters  must 
suffice  for  Stephen  till  then. 

"  It  is  rather  long  for  him  to  wait,"  Betty  hesi- 
tatingly said  one  day. 


THE   FIRST   COUNTESS    OF   WESSEX.  61 


(I 


"What!"  said  her  mother.  "From  you?  not 
to  respect  your  dear  father — " 

"  Of  course  it  is  quite  proper,"  said  Betty,  has- 
tily. "  I  don't  gainsay  it.  I  was  but  thinking 
that— that— " 

In  the  long,  slow  months  of  the  stipulated  in- 
terval, her  mother  tended  and  trained  J>etty  care- 
fully for  her  duties.  Fully  awake  now  to  the 
many  virtues  of  her  dear  departed  one,  she, 
among  other  acts  of  jsious  devotion  to  his  mem- 
ory, rebuilt  the  church  of  King's-IIintock  village, 
and  established  valuable  charities  in  all  the  vil- 
lages of  that  name,  as  far  as  to  Little-Hintock, 
several  miles  eastward. 

In  superintending  these  works,  particularly  that 
of  the  church-building,  her  daughter  Betty  was 
her  constant  companion,  and  the  incidents  of  their 
execution  were  doubtless  not  without  a  soothing 
effect  upon  the  young  creature's  heart.  She  had 
s])rung  from  girl  to  woman  by  a  sudden  bound, 
and  few  would  have  recognized  in  the  thoughtful 
face  of  Betty  now  the  same  person  who,  the  year 
before,  had  seemed  to  have  absolutely  no  idea 
whatever  of  responsibility,  moral  or  other.  Time 
passed  thus  till  the  Squire  had  been  nearly  a  year 
in  his  vault;  and  Mrs.  Dornell  was  duly  asked 
by  letter  by  the  patient  Reynard  if  she  were  will- 
ing for  him  to  come  soon.  He  did  not  wish  to 
take  Betty  away  if  her  mother's  sense  of  loneli- 
ness would  be  too  great,  but  would  willingly  live 
at  King's-IIintock  a  while  with  them. 


62  A   GROUP    OP  NOBLE   DAMBS. 

Before  the  widow  had  replied  to  this  communi- 
cation, she  one  day  happened  to  observe  Betty 
walking  on  the  south  terrace  in  the  full  sunlight, 
without  hat  or  mantle,  and  was  struck  by  her 
child's  figure.  Mrs.  Dornell  called  her  in,  and  said, 
suddenly:  "  Have  you  seen  your  husband  since  the 
time  of  your  poor  father's  death?" 

"  Well — yes,  mamma,"  says  Betty,  coloring. 

"  What — against  my  wishes  and  those  of  your 
dear  father !    I  am  shocked  at  your  disobedience !" 

"  But  my  father  said  eighteen,  ma'am,  and  you 
made  it  much  longer — " 

"Why,  of  course — out  of  consideration  for 
you!     When  have  ye  seen  him?" 

"  Well,"  stammered  Betty,  "  in  the  course  of  his 
letters  to  me  he  said  that  I  belonged  to  him,  and  if 
nobody  knew  that  we  met  it  would  make  no  dif- 
ference. And  that  I  need  not  hurt  your  feelings 
by  telling  you." 

"Well?" 

*'  So  I  went  to  Casterbridge  that  time  you  went 
to  London  about  five  months  ago — " 

"  And  met  him  there  ?  When  did  you  come 
back  ?" 

"  Dear  mamma,  it  grew  very  late,  and  he  said 
it  was  safer  not  to  go  back  till  next  day,  as  the 
roads  were  bad ;  and  as  you  were  away  from 
home — " 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more  !  This  is  your 
respect  for  your  father's  memory,"  groaned  the 
widow.     "  When  did  you  meet  him  again  ?" 


THE   FIRST   COUNTESS    OF   WESSEX.  63 

"  Oh — not  for  more  than  a  fortnight." 

"A  fortnight !  How  many  times  have  ye  seen 
him  altogether  ?" 

"I'm  sure,  mamma,  I've  not  seen  him  altogether 
a  dozen  times." 

"  A  dozen  !  And  eighteen  and  a  half  years  old 
barely  !" 

"Twice  we  met  by  accident,"  pleaded  Betty. 
"  Once  at  Abbot's-Ccrnel,  and  another  time  at  the 
Red  Lion,  Melchester." 

"Oh,  thou  deceitful  girl!"  cried  Mrs.  Dornell. 
"  An  accident  took  you  to  the  Red  Lion  while  I 
was  staying  at  the  White  Hart !  I  remember — 
you  came  in  at  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  and  said 
you'd  been  to  see  the  cathedral  by  the  light  o' 
the  moon !" 

"My  ever-honored  mamma,  so  I  had!  I  only 
went  to  the  Red  Lion  with  him  afterwards." 

"  Oh  Betty,  Betty  !  That  my  child  should  have 
deceived  me  even  in  my  widowed  days  !" 

"But,  my  dearest  mamma,  you  made  me  marry 
him  !"  says  Betty,  with  spirit,  "  and,  of  course,  I've 
to  obey  him  more  tlian  you  now  !" 

Mrs.  Dornell  sighed.  "All  I  have  to  say  is, 
that  you'd  better  get  your  husband  to  join  you  as 
soon  as  possible,"  she  remarked.  "  To  go  on  play- 
ins:  the  maiden  like  this  —  I'm  ashamed  to  see 
you !" 

She  wrote  instantly  to  Stephen  Reynard :  "  I 
wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  matter  as  between 
you  two ;  though  I  should  advise  you  to  openly 


64         A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

join  each  other  as  soon  as  you  can — if  you  wish 
to  avoid  scandal." 

He  came,  though  not  till  the  promised  title  had 
been  granted,  and  he  could  call  Betty,  archly, "  My 
Lady." 

People  said,  in  after-years,  that  she  and  her  hus- 
band were  very  happy.  However  that  may  be, 
they  had  a  numerous  family  ;  and  she  became  in 
due  course  first  Countess  of  Wessex,  as  he  had 
foretold. 

The  little  white  frock  in  which  she  had  been 
married  to  him,  at  the  tender  age  of  twelve,  was 
carefully  preserved  among  the  relics  at  King's- 
Hintock  Court,  where  it  may  still  be  seen  by  the 
curious — a  yellowing,  pathetic  testimony  to  the 
small  count  taken  of  the  happiness  of  an  innocent 
child  in  the  social  strategy  of  those  days,  which 
might  have  led,  but  providentially  did  not  lead, 
to  great  unhapj^iness. 

When  the  earl  died  Betty  wrote  him  an  epi- 
taph, in  which  she  described  him  as  the  best  of 
husbands,  fathers,  and  friends,  and  called  herself 
his  disconsolate  widow. 

Such  is  woman ;  or,  rather  (not  to  give  offence 
by  so  sweeping  an  assertion),  such  was  Betty 
Dornell. 

It  was  at  a  meeting  of  one  of  the  "Wessex  Field 
and  Antiquarian  clubs  that  the  foregoing  story, 
partly  told,  partly  read  from  a  manuscript,  was 
made  to  do  duty  for  the  regulation  papers  on 


THE   FIRST   COUNTESS    OF    WES8EX.  65 

deformed  butterflies,  fossil  ox-horns,  prehistoric 
dung-mixens,  and  such  like,  that  usually  occupied 
the  more  serious  attention  of  the  members. 

This  club  was  of  an  inclusive  and  intersocial 
character  ;  to  a  degree,  indeed,  remarkable  for 
the  part  of  England  in  which  it  had  its  being — 
dear,  delightful  Wessex,  whose  statuesque  dynas- 
ties are  even  now  only  just  beginning  to  feel  the 
shaking  of  the  new  and  strange  spirit  without, 
like  that  which  entered  the  lonely  valley  of  Ezeki- 
el's  vision  and  made  the  dry  bones  move  ;  where 
the  honest  squires,  tradesmen,  parsons,  clerks,  and 
people  still  j>raise  the  Lord  with  one  voice  for 
His  best  of  all  possible  worlds. 

The  present  niceting,  which  was  to  extend  over 
two  da^'s,  had  opened  its  proceedings  at  the  mu- 
seum of  the  town,  whose  buildings  and  environs 
were  to  be  visited  by  the  members.  Lunch  had 
ended,  and  the  afternoon  excursion  had  been  about 
to  be  undertaken,  when  the  rain  came  down  in  an 
obstinate  spatter,  which  revealed  no  sign  of  cessa- 
tion. As  the  members  waited  they  grew  chilly, 
although  it  was  only  autumn,  and  a  fire  was  light- 
ed, which  threw  a  cheerful  shine  upon  the  var- 
nished skulls,  urns,  penates,  tesserai,  costumes, 
coats  of  mail,  weapons,  and  missals,  animated  the 
fossilized  ichthyosaurus  and  iguanodon  ;  while  the 
dead  eyes  of  the  stuffed  birds  —  those  never -ab- 
sent familiars  in  such  collections,  though  murdered 
to  extinction  out  of  doors  —  flashed  as  they  had 
flashed  to  the  rising  sun  above  the  neighboring 
6 


66  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

moors  on  the  fatal  morning  when  the  trigger  was 
pulled  which  ended  their  little  flight.  It  was  then 
that  the  historian  produced  his  manuscript,  which 
he  had  prepared,  he  said,  with  a  view  to  publica- 
tion. His  delivery  of  the  story  having  concluded 
as  aforesaid,  the  speaker  expressed  his  hope  that 
the  constraint  of  the  weather,  and  the  paucity  of 
more  scientific  papers,  would  excuse  any  inappro- 
priateness  in  his  subject. 

Several  members  observed  that  a  storm-bound 
club  could  not  presume  to  be  selective,  and  they 
were  all  very  much  obliged  to  him  for  siich  a  cu- 
rious chapter  from  the  domestic  histories  of  the 
county. 

The  president  looked  gloomily  from  the  win- 
dow at  the  descending  rain,  and  broke  a  short 
silence  by  saying  that  though  the  club  had  met, 
there  seemed  little  probability  of  its  being  able  to 
visit  the  objects  of  interest  set  down  among  the 
agenda. 

The  treasurer  observed  that  they  had  at  least  a 
roof  over  their  heads;  and  they  had  also  a  second 
day  before  them. 

A  sentimental  member,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair,  declared  that  he  was  in  no  hurry  to  go  out, 
and  that  nothing  would  please  him  so  much  as 
another  county  story,  with  or  without  manuscript. 

The  colonel  added  that  the  subject  should  be  a 
lady,  like  the  former,  to  which  a  gentleman,  known 
as  the  Spark,  said  "  Hear,  hear!" 

Though  these  had  spoken  in  jest,  a  rural  dean 


THE   FIRST   COUNTESS   OP   WESSEX.  67 

who  was  present  observed  blandly  that  there  was 
no  lack  of  materials.  Many,  indeed,  were  the  le- 
gends and  traditions  of  gentle  and  noble  dames, 
renowned  in  times  past  in  that  part  of  England, 
whose  actions  and  passions  were  now,  but  for 
men's  memories,  buried  under  the  brief  inscrip- 
tion on  a  tomb  or  an  entry  of  dates  in  a  dry  ped- 
igree. 

Another  member,  an  old  surgeon,  a  somewhat 
grim  though  sociable  personage,  was  quite  of  the 
speaker's  opinion,  and  felt  sure  that  the  mem- 
ory of  the  reverend  gentleman  must  abound  with 
such  curious  tales  of  fair  dames,  of  their  loves 
and  hates,  their  joys  and  their  misfortunes,  their 
beauty  and  their  fate. 

The  parson,  a  trifle  confused,  retorted  that  their 
friend  the  surgeon,  the  son  of  a  surgeon,  seemed 
to  him,  as  a  man  who  had  seen  much  and  heard 
more  during  the  long  course  of  his  own  and  his 
father's  practice,  the  member  of  all  others  most 
likely  to  be  acquainted  witli  such  lore. 

The  bookworm,  the  colonel,  the  historian,  the 
vice-president,  the  churchwarden,  the  two  curates, 
the  gentleman -tradesman,  the  sentimental  mem- 
ber, the  crimson  maltster,  the  quiet  gentleman, 
the  man  of  family,  the  Spark,  and  several  others, 
quite  agreed,  and  begged  that  he  would  recall 
something  of  the  kind.  The  old  surgeon  said 
that,  though  a  meeting  of  the  Mid-Wessex  Field 
and  Antiquarian  Club  was  the  last  place  at  which 
he  should  have  expected  to  be  called  upon  iu  this 


Cd        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

way,  he  had  no  objection;  and  the  parson  said  he 
would  come  next.  The  surgeon  then  reflected, 
and  decided  to  relate  the  history  of  a  lady  named 
Barbara,  who  lived  towards  the  end  of  the  last 
century,  apologizing  for  his  tale  as  being  perhaps 
a  little  too  professional.  The  crimson  maltster 
winked  to  the  Spark  at  hearing  the  nature  of  the 
apology,  and  the  surgeon  began. 


DAME    THE   SECOND. 

Barbara,  ot  tbe  Ibouse  ot  0rebe. 

BY  THE  OLD  SURGEON. 

It  was  apparently  an  idea,  rather  than  a  pas- 
sion, that  inspired  Lord  Uplandtowers'  resolve  to 
win  her.  Nobody  ever  knew  when  he  formed  it, 
or  whence  he  got  his  assurance  of  success  in  the 
face  of  her  manifest  dislike  of  him.  Possibly 
not  until  after  that  first  important  act  of  her  life 
which  I  shall  presently  mention.  His  matured 
and  cynical  doggedness  at  the  age  of  nineteen, 
when  impulse  mostly  rules  calculation,  was  re- 
markable, and  might  have  owed  its  existence  as 
much  to  his  succession  to  the  earldom  and  its  ac- 
companying local  honors  in  childhood,  as  to  the 
family  character  ;  an  elevation  which  jerked  him 
into  maturity,  so  to  speak,  without  his  having 
known  adolescence.  He  had  only  reached  his 
twelfth  year  when  his  father,  the  fourth  earl, 
died,  after  a  course  of  the  Bath  waters. 

Nevertheless,  the  family  character  had  a  great 
^eal  to  do  with  it.     Determination  was  hereditary 


10  A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

in  the  bearers  of  that  escutcheon ;  sometimes  for 
good,  sometimes  for  evil. 

The  seats  of  the  two  families  were  about  ten 
miles  apart,  the  way  between  them  lying  along 
the  now  old,  then  new,  turnpike-road  connecting 
Havenpool  and  Warborne  with  the  city  of  Mel- 
chester  :  a  road  which,  though  only  a  branch  from 
what  was  known  as  the  Great  Western  Highway, 
is  probably,  even  at  present,  as  it  has  been  for  the 
last  hundred  years,  one  of  the  finest  examples  of 
a  macadamized  turnpike-track  that  can  be  found 
in  England. 

The  mansion  of  the  earl,  as  well  as  that  of  his 
neighbor,  Barbara's  father,  stood  back  about  a 
mile  from  the  highway,  with  which  each  was  con- 
nected by  an  ordinary  drive  and  lodge.  It  was 
along  this  particular  highway  that  the  young 
earl  drove  on  a  certain  evening  at  Christmas-tide, 
some  twenty  years  before  the  end  of  the  last  cen- 
tury, to  attend  a  ball  at  Chene  Manor,  the  home 
of  Barbara  and  her  parents,  Sir  John  and  Lady 
Grebe.  Sir  John's  was  a  baronetcy  created  a  few 
years  before  the  breaking  out  of  the  Civil  War, 
and  his  lands  were  even  more  extensive  than  those 
of  Lord  Uplandtowers  himself,  comprising  this 
Manor  of  Chene,  another  on  the  coast  near,  half 
the  Hundred  of  Cockdene,  and  well-enclosed  lands 
in  several  other  parishes,  notably  Warborne  and 
those  contiguous.  At  this  time  Barbara  was 
barely  seventeen,  and  the  ball  is  the  first  occasion 
on  which  we  have  any  tradition  of  Lord  Upland- 


BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.     71 

towers  attemi->ting  tender  relations  with  her — it 
was  early  enough,  God  knows. 

An  intimate  friend — one  of  the  Drenkhards — 
is  said  to  have  dined  with  him  that  day,  and  Lord 
Uplandtowers  had,  for  a  wonder,  communicated 
to  his  guest  the  secret  design  of  his  heart. 

"You'll  never  get  her — sure;  you'll  never  get 
her!"  this  friend  had  said  at  parting.  "  She's  not 
drawn  to  your  lordship  by  love ;  and  as  for 
thought  of  a  good  match,  why,  there's  no  more 
calculation  in  her  than  in  a  bird." 

"  We'll  see,"  said  Lord  Uplandtowers,  impas- 
sively. 

He  no  doubt  thought  of  his  friend's  forecast  as 
he  travelled  along  the  highway  in  his  chariot ; 
but  the  sculptural  repose  of  his  profile  against 
the  vanishing  daylight  on  his  right  hand  would 
have  shown  his  friend  that  the  earl's  equanimity 
was  undisturbed.  He  reached  the  solitary  way- 
side tavern  called  Lornton  Lin — the  rendezvous 
of  many  a  daring  poacher  for  operations  in  the 
adjoining  forest;  and  he  might  have  observed,  if 
he  had  taken  the  trouble,  a  strange  post-chaise 
standing  in  the  halting-space  before  the  inn.  He 
duly  sped  past  it,  and  half  an  hour  after  through 
the  little  town  of  Warborne.  Onward  a  mile  far- 
ther was  the  house  of  his  entertainer. 

At  this  date  it  was  an  imposing  edifice  —  or, 
rather,  congeries  of  edifices — as  extensive  as  the 
residence  of  the  earl  himself,  though  far  less  reg- 
ular.    One  wing  showed  extreme  antiquity,  hav- 


72  A    GKOUP    OF    NOBLE    DAMES. 

ing  huge  chimneys,  whose  substructures  projected 
from  the  external  walls  like  towers;  and  a  kitchen 
of  vast  dimensions,  in  which  (it  was  said)  break- 
fasts had  been  cooked  for  John  of  Gaunt.  While 
he  was  yet  in  the  forecourt  he  could  hear  the 
rhythm  of  French  horns  and  clarionets,  the  favor- 
ite instruments  of  those  days  at  such  entertain- 
ments. 

Entering  the  long  parlor,  in  which  the  dance 
had  just  been  opened  by  Lady  Grebe  with  a  min- 
uet— it  being  now  seven  o'clock,  according  to  the 
tradition  —  he  was  received  with  a  welcome  be- 
fitting his  rank,  and  looked  round  for  Barbara. 
She  was  not  dancing,  and  seemed  to  be  preoccu- 
pied—  almost,  indeed,  as  though  she  had  been 
waiting  for  him.  Barbara  at  this  time  was  a 
good  and  pretty  girl,  who  never  spoke  ill  of  any 
one,  and  hated  other  pretty  women  the  very  least 
possible.  She  did  not  refuse  him  for  the  country- 
dance  which  followed,  and  soon  after  was  his 
partner  in  a  second. 

The  evening  wore  on,  and  the  horns  and  clario- 
nets tootled  merrily.  Barbara  evinced  towards 
her  lover  neither  distinct  preference  nor  aversion, 
but  old  eyes  would  have  seen  that  she  pondered 
something.  However,  after  supper  she  pleaded  a 
headache,  and  disappeared.  To  pass  the  time  of 
her  absence,  Lord  Uplandtowers  went  into  a  lit- 
tle room  adjoining  the  long  gallery,  where  some 
elderly  ones  were  sitting  by  the  fire — for  he  had 
a  phlegmatic  dislike  of  dancing  for  its  own  sake 


BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.     73 

— and  lifting  the  window-curtains,  he  looked  out 
of  the  window  into  the  park  and  wood,  dark  now 
as  a  cavern.  Some  of  the  guests  appeared  to  be 
leaving  even  so  soon  as  this,  two  lights  showing 
themselves  as  turning  away  from  the  door  and 
sinking  to  nothing  in  the  distance. 

His  hostess  put  her  head  into  tlie  room  to  look 
for  partners  for  the  ladies,  and  Lord  Uplandtow- 
ers  came  out.  Lady  Grebe  informed  him  that 
Barbara  had  not  returned  to  the  ball-room  ;  she 
had  gone  to  bed  in  sheer  necessity. 

"  She  has  been  so  excited  over  the  ball  all  day," 
her  mother  continued,  "that  I  feared  she  would 
be  worn  out  early.  .  .  .  But,  sure.  Lord  Upland- 
towers,  you  won't  be  leaving  yet  ?" 

He  said  that  it  was  near  twelve  o'clock,  and 
that  some  had  already  left. 

"  I  protest  nobody  has  gone  yet,"  said  Lady 
Grebe. 

To  humor  her  he  stayed  till  midniglit,  and  then 
set  out.  He  had  made  no  progress  in  his  suit ; 
but  he  had  assured  himself  that  Barbara  gave  no 
other  guest  the  preference,  and  nearly  everybody 
in  the  neighborhood  was  there. 

"  'Tis  only  a  matter  of  time,"  said  the  calm 
young  philosopher. 

The  next  morning  he  lay  till  near  ten  o'clock, 
and  he  had  only  just  come  out  upon  the  head 
of  the  staircase  when  he  heard  hoofs  upon  the 
gravel  without  ;  in  a  few  moments  the  door 
had    been    opened,    and    Sir    John    Grebe    met 


74  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

him  in    the   hall  as  he  set  foot  on   the   lowest 
stair. 

"  My  lord — where's  Barbara — my  daughter  ?" 

Even  the  Earl  of  Uplandtowers  could  not  re- 
press amazement.  "  What  is  the  matter,  my  dear 
Sir  John  ?"  says  he. 

The  news  was  startling  indeed.  From  the 
baronet's  disjointed  explanation  Lord  Upland- 
towers  gathered  that  after  his  own  and  the  other 
guests'  departure  Sir  John  and  Lady  Grebe  had 
gone  to  rest  without  seeing  any  more  of  Barbara, 
it  being  understood  by  them  that  she  had  retired 
to  bed  when  she  sent  word  to  say  that  she  could 
not  join  the  dancers  again.  Before  then  she  had 
told  her  maid  that  she  would  dispense  with  her 
services  for  the  night ;  and  there  was  evidence 
to  show  that  the  young  lady  had  never  laid  down 
at  all,  the  bed  being  unpressed.  Circumstances 
seemed  to  prove  that  the  deceitful  girl  had  feign- 
ed indisposition  to  get  an  excuse  for  leaving  the 
ball-room,  and  that  she  had  left  the  house  within 
ten  minutes — presumably  during  the  first  dance 
after  supper. 

"  I  saw  her  go,"  said  Lord  Uplandtowers. 

"  The  devil  you  did  !"  says  Sir  John. 

*'  Yes."  And  he  mentioned  the  retreating  car- 
riage  -  lights,  and  how  he  was  assured  by  Lady 
Grebe  that  no  guest  had  departed, 

"Surely  that  was  it!"  said  the  father.  "But 
she's  not  gone  alone,  d'ye  know!" 

"Ah!     Who  is  the  young  man?" 


BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.     75 

"  I  can  on'y  guess.  My  worst  fear  is  my  most 
likely  guess.  I'll  say  no  more.  I  thought — yet 
I  would  not  believe  —  it  possible  that  you  was 
the  sinner.     Would  that  you  had  been !     But  'tis 

t'other,  'tis  t'other,  by  G !     I  must  e'en  up, 

and  after 'em!" 

"  Whom  do  you  suspect  ?" 

Sir  John  would  not  give  a  name,  and,  stultified 
rather  than  agitated,  Lord  Upland  towers  accom- 
panied him  back  to  Chene.  lie  again  asked  upon 
whom  were  the  baronet's  suspicions  directed;  and 
the  impulsive  Sir  John  was  no  match  for  the  in- 
sistence of  Uplandtowers. 

He  said,  at  length,  "I  fear  'tis  Edmond  Wil- 
lowes." 

"  Who's  he  ?" 

"A  young  fellow  of  Shottsford  -  Forum  —  a 
widow-woman's  son,"  the  other  told  him,  and  ex- 
phiined  that  Willowes's  father,  or  grandfather, 
was  the  last  of  the  old  glass  -  painters  in  that 
place,  where  (as  you  may  know)  the  art  lingered 
on  when  it  had  died  out  in  every  other  part  of 
England." 

"  By   G ,  that's  bad  —  mighty  bad  !"  said 

Lord  Uplandtowers,  throwing  himself  back  in  the 
chaise  in  frigid  despair. 

They  despatched  emissaries  in  all  directions ; 
one  by  the  Melchester  Road,  another  by  Shotts- 
ford-Forum,  another  coastward. 

But  the  lovers  had  a  ten -hours'  start;  and  it 
was  apparent  that  sound  judgment  had  been  ex- 


76  A   GROUP    OP   NOBLE    DAMES. 

ercised  in  choosing  as  their  time  of  flight  the 
particular  night  when  the  movements  of  a  strange 
carriage  would  not  be  noticed,  either  in  the  park 
or  on  the  neighboring  highway,  owing  to  the 
general  press  of  vehicles.  The  chaise  which  had 
been  seen  waiting  at  Lornton  Inn  was,  no  doubt, 
the  one  they  had  escaped  in;  and  the  pair  of 
heads  which  had  planned  so  cleverly  thus  far  had 
probably  contrived  marriage  ere  now. 

The  fears  of  her  parents  were  realized.  A  let- 
ter sent  by  special  messenger  from  Barbara,  on 
the  evening  of  that  day,  briefly  informed  them 
that  her  lover  and  herself  were  on  the  way  to 
London,  and  before  this  communication  reached 
her  home  they  would  be  united  as  husband  and 
wife.  She  had  taken  this  extreme  step  because 
she  loved  her  dear  Edmond  as  she  could  love  no 
other  man,  and  because  she  had  seen  closing  round 
her  the  doom  of  marriage  with  Lord  Uplandtow- 
ers,  unless  she  put  that  threatened  fate  out  of 
possibility  by  doing  as  she  had  done.  She  had 
well  considered  the  step  beforehand,  and  was  pre- 
pared to  live  like  any  other  country  -  townsman's 
wife  if  her  father  repudiated  her  for  her  action. 

"  D her  !"  said  Lord  Uplandtowers,  as  he 

drove  homeward  that  night.     "D her  for  a 

fool !" — which  shows  the  kind  of  love  he  bore  her. 

Well,  Sir  John  had  already  started  in  pursuit 
of  them  as  a  matter  of  duty,  driving  like  a  wild 
man  to  Melchester,  and  thence  by  the  direct  high- 
way to  the  capital.     But  he  soon  saw  that  he  was 


BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.     77 

acting  to  no  purpose;  and  bj^-and-by,  discovering 
that  the  marriage  had  actually  taken  place,  he 
forebore  all  attempts  to  unearth  them  in  the  city, 
and  returned  and  sat  down  with  his  lady  to  digest 
the  event  as  best  they  could. 

To  proceed  against  this  Willowes  for  the  ab- 
duction of  our  heiress  was,  possibly,  in  their  pow- 
er; yet,  when  they  considered  the  now  unaltera- 
ble facts,  they  refrained  from  violent  retribution. 
Some  six  weeks  passed,  during  which  time  Bar- 
bara's parents,  though  they  keenly  felt  her  loss, 
held  no  communication  with  the  truant,  either 
for  reproach  or  condonation.  They  continued  to 
think  of  the  disgrace  she  had  brought  upon  her- 
self;  for,  though  the  young  man  was  an  honest 
fellow,  and  the  son  of  an  honest  father,  the  latter 
had  died  so  early,  and  iiis  widow  had  had  such 
struggles  to  maintain  herself,  that  the  son  was 
very  imperfectly  educated.  Moreover,  his  blood 
was,  as  far  as  they  knew,  of  no  distinction  what- 
ever, while  hers,  through  her  mother,  was  com- 
pounded of  the  best  juices  of  ancient  baronial 
distillation,  containing  tinctui-es  of  Maundeville, 
and  Mohun,  and  Syward,  and  Peverell,  and  Culli- 
ford,  and  Talbot,  and  Plantagenet,  and  York,  and 
Lancaster,  and  God  knows  what  besides,  which  it 
was  a  thousand  pities  to  throw  away. 

The  father  and  mother  sat  by  the  fireplace  that 
was  spanned  by  the  four-centred  arch  bearing  the 
family  shields  on  its  haunches,  and  groaned  aloud 
— the  lady  more  than  Sir  John. 


78  A   GROUP    OP   NOBLE    DAMES. 

"  To  think  this  should  have  come  upon  us  in  our 
old  age  !"  said  he. 

"  Speak  for  yourself !"  she  snapped  through  her 
sobs.  "  I  am  only  one-and-forty !  .  .  .  Why  didn't 
ye  ride  faster  and  overtake  'em?" 

In  the  mean  time  the  young  married  lovers,  car- 
ing no  more  about  their  blood  than  about  ditch- 
water,  were  intensely  happy — happy,  that  is,  in 
the  descending  scale  which,  as  we  all  know.  Heav- 
en in  its  wisdom  has  ordained  for  such  rash  cases ; 
that  is  to  say,  the  first  week  they  were  in  the  sev- 
enth heaven,  the  second  in  the  sixth,  the  third 
week  temperate,  the  fourth  reflective,  and  so  on; 
a  lover's  heart  after  possession  being  comparable 
to  the  earth  in  its  geologic  stages,  as  described 
to  us  sometimes  by  our  worthy  president ;  first  a 
hot  coal,  then  a  warm  one,  then  a  cooling  cinder, 
then  chilly — the  simile  shall  be  pursued  no  further. 
The  long  and  the  short  of  it  was  that  one  day  a 
letter,  sealed  with  their  daughter's  own  little  seal, 
came  into  Sir  John  and  Lady  Grebe's  hands ;  and, 
on  opening  it,  they  found  it  to  contain  an  appeal 
from  the  young  couple  to  Sir  John  to  forgive 
them  for  what  they  had  done,  and  they  would  fall 
on  their  naked  knees  and  be  most  dutiful  children 
for  evermore. 

Then  Sir  John  and  his  lady  sat  down  again  by 
the  fireplace  with  the  four-centred  arch,  and  con- 
sulted, and  reread  the  letter.  Sir  John  Grebe, 
if  the  truth  must  be  told,  loved  his  daughter's 
happiness  far  more,  poor  man,  than  he  loved  his 


BAKBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.     79 

name  and  lineage  ;  he  recalled  to  liis  raind  all  her 
little  ways,  gave  vent  to  a  sigh;  and,  by  this  time 
acclimatized  to  the  idea  of  the  marriage,  said  that 
what  was  done  could  not  be  undone,  and  that  he 
supposed  they  must  not  be  too  harsh  with  her. 
Perhaps  Barbara  and  her  husband  were  in  actual 
need ;  and  how  could  they  let  their  only  child 
starve  ? 

A  slight  consolation  had  come  to  them  in  an 
unexpected  manner.  They  had  been  credibly  in- 
formed that  an  ancestor  of  plebeian  Willowes  was 
once  honored  with  intermarriage  with  a  scion  of 
the  aristocracy  who  had  gone  to  the  dogs.  In 
short,  such  is  the  foolishness  of  distinguished  par- 
ents, and  sometimes  of  others  also,  that  they  wrote 
that  very  day  to  the  address  Barbara  had  given 
them,  informing  her  that  she  might  return  home 
and  bring  her  husband  with  her;  they  would  not 
object  to  see  him,  would  not  reproach  her,  and 
would  endeavor  to  welcome  both,  and  to  discuss 
with  them  what  could  best  be  arranged  for  their 
future. 

In  three  or  four  days  a  rather  shabby  post- 
chaise  drew  up  at  the  door  of  Chene  Manor-house, 
at  sound  of  which  the  tender-hearted  baronet  and 
his  wife  ran  out  as  if  to  welcome  a  prince  and  prin- 
cess of  the  blood.  They  were  overjoyed  to  see 
their  s})oilt  child  return  safe  and  sound — though 
she  was  only  I\Irs.  Willowes,  wife  of  Edmond  Wil- 
lowes of  nowhere.  Barbara  burst  into  penitential 
tears,  and  both  husband  and  wife  were  contrite 


80  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

enough,  as  well  they  might  be,  considering  that 
they  had  not  a  guinea  to  call  their  own. 

When  the  four  had  calmed  themselves,  and  not 
a  word  of  chiding  had  been  uttered  to  the  pair, 
they  discussed  the  position  soberly,  young  Wil- 
lowes  sitting  in  the  background  with  great  mod- 
esty till  invited  forward  by  Lady  Grebe  in  no 
frigid  tone. 

"  How  handsome  he  is  !"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  I  don't  wonder  at  Barbara's  craze  for  him." 

He  was,  indeed,  one  of  the  handsomest  men  who 
ever  set  his  lips  on  a  maid's.  A  blue  coat,  mur- 
rey waistcoat,  and  breeches  of  drab,  set  off  a  fig- 
ure that  could  scarcely  be  surpassed.  He  had 
large,  dark  eyes,  anxious  now,  as  they  glanced 
from  Barbara  to  her  parents  and  tenderly  back 
again  to  her ;  observing  whom,  even  now  in  her 
trepidation,  one  could  see  why  the  sang-froid  of 
Lord  Uplandtowers  had  been  raised  to  more  than 
lukewarmness.  Her  fair  young  face  (according  to 
the  tale  handed  down  by  old  women)  looked  out 
from  under  a  gray  conical  hat,  trimmed  with  white 
ostrich  -  feathers,  and  her  little  toes  peeped  from 
a  buff  petticoat  worn  under  a  puce  gown.  Her 
features  were  not  regular ;  they  were  almost  in- 
fantine, as  you  may  see  from  miniatures  in  pos- 
session of  the  family,  her  mouth  showing  much 
sensitiveness,  and  one  could  be  sure  that  her  faults 
would  not  lie  on  the  side  of  bad  temper  unless  for 
urgent  reasons. 

Well,  they  discussed  their  state  as  became  them, 


BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.     81 

and  the  desire  of  the  young  couple  to  gain  the 
good-will  of  those  upon  whom  they  were  literally 
dependent  for  everything  induced  them  to  agree 
to  any  temj^orixing  measure  that  was  not  too  irk- 
some. Therefore,  having  been  nearly  two  months 
united,  they  did  not  oppose  Sir  John's  proposal 
that  he  should  furnish  Edmond  Willowes  with 
funds  sufficient  for  him  to  travel  a  year  on  the 
Continent  in  the  company  of  a  tutor,  the  young 
man  undertaking  to  lend  himself  with  the  utmost 
diligence  to  the  tutor's  instructions,  till  he  became 
polished  outwardly  and  inwardly  to  the  degree 
required  in  the  husband  of  such  a  lady  as  Bar- 
bara. He  was  to  apply  himself  to  the  study  of  lan- 
guages, manners,  history,  society,  ruins,  and  every- 
thing else  that  came  under  his  eyes,  till  he  should 
return  to  take  his  place  without  blushing  by  Bar- 
bara's side. 

"  And  by  that  time,"  said  worthy  Sir  John,  "I'll 
get  my  little  place  out  at  Yewsholt  ready  for  you 
and  Barbara  to  occupy  on  your  return.  The 
house  is  small  and  out  of  the  way  ;  but  it  will  do 
for  a  young  couple  for  a  while." 

"If  'twere  no  bigger  than  a  summer-house  it 
would  do  !"  says  Barbara. 

"  If  'twere  no  bigger  than  a  sedan-chair !"  says 
Willowes.    "And  the  more  lonely  the  better." 

"  We  can  put  up  with  the  loneliness,"  said  Bar- 
bara, with  less  zest.  "Some  friends  will  come,  no 
doubt." 

All  this  being  laid  down,  a  travelled  tutor  was 
6 


82  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

called  in — a  man  of  many  gifts  and  great  experi 
ence — and  on  a  fine  morning  away  tutor  and  pupil 
went.  A  great  reason  urged  against  Barbara  ac- 
companying her  youthful  husband  was  that  his 
attentions  to  her  would  naturally  be  such  as  to 
prevent  his  zealously  applying  every  hour  of  his 
time  to  learning  and  seeing — an  argument  of  wise 
prescience,  and  unanswerable.  Regular  days  for 
letter- writing  were  fixed,  Barbara  and  her  Ed- 
mond  exchanged  their  last  kisses  at  the  door,  and 
the  chaise  swept  under  the  archway  into  the 
drive. 

He  wrote  to  her  from  Le  Havre,  as  soon  as  he 
reached  that  port,  which  was  not  for  seven  days, 
on  account  of  adverse  winds ;  he  wrote  from 
Rouen,  and  from  Paris  ;  described  to  her  his  sight 
of  the  King  and  Court  at  Versailles,  and  the  won- 
derful marble -work  and  mirrors  in  that  palace; 
wrote  next  from  Lyons;  then,  after  a  compara- 
tively long  interval,  from  Turin,  narrating  his 
fearful  adventures  in  crossing  Mont  Cenis  on 
mules,  and  how  he  was  overtaken  with  a  terrific 
snow  -  storm,  which  had  wellnigh  been  the  end 
of  him,  and  his  tutor,  and  his  guides.  Then  he 
wrote  glowingly  of  Italy ;  and  Barbara  could  see 
the  development  of  her  husband's  mind  reflected 
in  his  letters  month  by  month ;  and  she  much  ad- 
mired the  forethought  of  her  father  in  suggest- 
ing this  education  for  Edmond.  Yet  she  sighed 
sometimes  —  her  husband  being  no  longer  in  evi- 
dence to  fortify  her  in  her  choice  of  him — and 


BAKBABA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.     83 

timidly  dreaded  what  mortifications  might  be  in 
store  for  her  by  reason  of  this  mesalliance.  She 
went  out  very  little ;  for  on  the  one  or  two  occa- 
sions on  which  she  had  shown  herself  to  former 
friends  she  noticed  a  distinct  difference  in  their 
manner,  as  though  they  should  say,  "Ah,  my  hap- 
py swain's  wife ;  you're  caught !" 

Edmond's  lettei's  were  as  affectionate  as  ever; 
even  more  affectionate,  after  a  while,  than  hers 
were  to  him.  Barbara  observed  this  growing 
coolness  in  herself;  and  like  a  good  and  honest 
lady  was  horrified  and  grieved,  since  her  only 
wish  was  to  act  faithfully  and  uprightly.  It 
troubled  her  so  much  that  she  prayed  for  a  warm- 
er heart,  and  at  last  wrote  to  her  husband  to  beg 
him,  now  that  he  was  in  the  land  of  Art,  to  send 
her  his  ]>ortrait,  ever  so  small,  that  she  might  look 
at  it  all  day  and  every  day,  and  never  for  a  mo- 
ment forget  his  features. 

Willowes  was  nothing  loath,  and  replied  that  be 
would  do  more  than  she  wished  ;  he  had  made 
friends  with  a  sculptor  in  Pisa,  who  was  much 
interested  in  him  and  his  history;  and  he  had 
commissioned  this  artist  to  make  a  bust  of  him- 
self in  marble,  which  when  finished  he  would  send 
her.  What  Barbara  had  wanted  was  something 
immediate ;  but  she  expressed  no  objection  to  the 
delay;  and  in  his  next  communication  Edmond 
told  her  that  the  sculptor,  of  his  own  choice,  had 
decided  to  increase  the  bust  to  a  full-length  stat- 
ue, so  anxious  was  he  to  get  a  specimen  of  his 


84  A    GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

skill  introduced  to  the  notice  of  the  English  aris- 
tocracy.    It  was  progressing  well  and  rapidly. 

Meanwhile,  Barbara's  attention  began  to  be  oc- 
cupied at  home  with  Yewsholt  Lodge,  the  house 
that  her  kind  -  hearted  father  was  preparing  for 
her  residence  when  her  husband  returned.  It 
was  a  small  place  on  the  plan  of  a  large  one — a 
cottage  built  in  the  form  of  a  mansion,  having  a 
central  hall  with  a  wooden  gallery  running  round 
it,  and  rooms  no  bigger  than  closets  to  follow  this 
introduction.  It  stood  on  a  slope  so  solitary,  and 
surrounded  by  trees  so  dense,  that  the  birds  who 
inhabited  the  boughs  sang  at  strange  hours,  as  if 
they  hardly  could  distinguish  night  from  day. 

During  the  progress  of  repairs  at  this  bower 
Barbara  frequently  visited  it.  Though  so  seclud- 
ed by  the  dense  growth,  it  was  near  the  high- 
road, and  one  day  while  looking  over  the  fence 
she  saw  Lord  Uplandtowers  riding  past.  He  sa- 
luted her  courteously,  yet  with  mechanical  stiff- 
ness, and  did  not  halt.  Barbara  went  home,  and 
continued  to  pray  that  she  might  never  cease  to 
love  her  husband.  After  that  she  sickened,  and 
did  not  come  out  of  doors  again  for  a  long  time. 

The  year  of  education  had  extended  to  fourteen 
months,  and  the  house  was  in  order  for  Edmond's 
return  to  take  up  his  abode  there  with  Barbara, 
Avhen,  instead  of  the  accustomed  letter  for  her, 
came  one  to  Sir  John  Grebe  in  the  handwriting 
of  the  said  tutor,  informing  him  of  a  terrible  ca- 
tastrophe that  had  occurred  to  them  at  Venice. 


BAUBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OP  GREBE,     85 

Mr.  Willowes  and  himself  had  attended  the  thea- 
tre one  night  during  tlie  Carnival  of  the  preced- 
ing week,  to  witness  the  Italian  comedy,  when, 
owing  to  the  carelessness  of  one  of  the  candle- 
snuffers,  the  theatre  had  caught  fire  and  been  burn- 
ed to  the  ground.  Few  persons  had  lost  their  lives, 
owing  to  the  superhuman  exertions  of  some  of 
the  audience  in  getting  out  the  senseless  sufferers; 
and,  among  them  all,  he  who  had  risked  his  own 
life  the  most  heroically  was  Mr.  Willowes.  In 
re-entering  for  the  fifth  time  to  save  his  fellow- 
creatures  some  fiery  beams  had  fallen  upon  him, 
and  he  had  been  given  up  for  lost.  He  was, 
however,  by  the  blessing  of  Providence,  recovered, 
with  the  life  still  in  him,  though  he  was  fearfully 
burned;  and  by  almost  a  miracle  he  seemed  like- 
ly to  survive,  his  constitution  being  wondrously 
sound.  He  was,  of  course,  unable  to  write,  but 
he  was  receiving  the  attention  of  several  skilful 
surgeons.  Further  report  would  be  made  by  the 
next  mail  or  by  private  hand. 

The  tutor  said  nothing  in  detail  of  poor  "Wil- 
lowes's  sufferings,  but  as  soon  as  the  news  was 
broken  to  Barbara  she  realized  how  intense  they 
must  have  been,  and  her  immediate  instinct  was 
to  rush  to  his  side,  though,  on  consideration,  the 
journey  seemed  impossible  to  her.  Her  health 
was  by  no  means  what  it  had  been,  and  to  post 
across  Europe  at  that  season  of  the  year,  or  to 
traverse  the  Bay  of  Biscay  in  a  sailing-craft,  Avas 

an  undertaking  that  would  hardly  be  justified  by 
o 


86  A   GROUP    OP   NOBLE    DAMES. 

the  result.  But  she  was  anxious  to  go  till,  on  read- 
ing to  the  end  of  the  letter,  her  husband's  tutor  was 
found  to  hint  very  strongly  against  such  a  step 
if  it  should  be  contemplated,  this  being  also  the 
opinion  of  the  surgeons.  And  though  Willowes's 
comrade  refrained  from  giving  his  reasons,  they 
disclosed  themselves  plainly  enough  in  the  se- 
quel. 

The  truth  was  that  the  worst  of  the  wounds  re- 
sulting from  the  fire  had  occurred  to  his  head  and 
face  —  that  handsome  face  which  had  won  her 
heart  from  her — and  both  the  tutor  and  the  sur- 
geons knew  that  for  a  sensitive  young  woman  to 
see  him  before  his  wounds  had  healed  would  cause 
more  misery  to  her  by  the  shock  than  happiness 
to  him  by  her  ministrations. 

Lady  Grebe  blurted  out  what  Sir  John  and 
Barbara  had  thought,  but  had  had  too  much  deli- 
cacy to  express. 

"Sure, 'tis  mighty  hard  for  you,  poor  Barbara, 
that  the  one  little  gift  he  had  to  justify  your  rash 
choice  of  him — his  wonderful  good  looks — should 
be  taken  away  like  this,  to  leave  'ee  no  excuse  at 
all  for  your  conduct  in  the  world's  eyes.  .  .  .  Well, 
I  wish  you'd  married  t'other — that  do  I !"  And 
the  lady  sighed. 

"He'll  soon  get  right  again,"  said  her  father, 
soothingly. 

Such  remarks  as  the  above  were  not  often 
made;  but  they  were  frequent  enough  to  cause 
Barbara  an  uneasy  sense  of  self-stultification.    She 


BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE,     87 

determined  to  hear  them  no  longer ;  and  the 
house  at  Yewsholt  being  ready  and  furnished,  she 
withdrew  thither  with  her  maids,  where  for  the 
first  time  she  could  feel  mistress  of  a  home  that 
would  be  hers  and  her  husband's  exclusively,  when 
he  came. 

After  long  weeks  Willowes  had  recovered  suffi- 
ciently to  be  able  to  write  himself,  and  slowly  and 
tenderly  he  enlightened  her  upon  the  full  extent 
of  his  injuries.  It  was  a  mercy,  he  said,  that  he 
had  not  lost  his  sight  entirely ;  but  he  was  thank- 
ful to  say  that  he  still  retained  full  vision  in  one 
eye,  though  the  other  was  dark  forever.  The 
sparing  manner  in  which  he  meted  out  particulars 
of  his  condition  told  Barbara  how  appalling  had 
been  his  experience.  He  was  grateful  for  her  as- 
surance that  nothing  could  change  her;  but  fear- 
ed that  she  did  not  fully  realize  that  he  was  so 
sadly  disfigured  as  to  make  it  doubtful  if  she 
would  recognize  him.  However,  in  spite  of  all, 
his  heart  was  as  true  to  her  as  it  ever  had  been. 

Barbara  saw  from  his  anxiety  how  much  lay 
behind.  She  replied  that  she  submitted  to  the 
decrees  of  Fate,  and  would  welcome  him  in  any 
shape  as  soon  as  he  could  come.  She  told  him  of 
the  pretty  retreat  in  which  she  had  taken  up  her 
abode,  pending  their  joint  occupation  of  it,  and 
did  not  reveal  how  much  she  had  sighed  over  the 
information  that  all  his  good  looks  were  gone. 
Still  less  did  she  say  that  she  felt  a  certain 
strangeness  in  awaiting  him,  the  weeks  they  had 


88         A  GROUP  OP  NOBLE  DAMES. 

lived  together  having  been  so  short  by  compari- 
son with  the  length  of  his  absence. 

Slowly  drew  on  the  time  when  Willowes  found 
himself  well  enough  to  come  home.  He  landed 
at  Southampton,  and  posted  thence  towards  Yew- 
sbolt.  Barbara  arranged  to  go  out  to  meet  him 
as  far  as  Lornton  Inn — the  spot  between  the  For- 
est and  the  Chase  at  which  he  had  waited  for 
night  on  the  evening  of  their  elopement.  Thither 
she  drove  at  the  appointed  hour  in  a  little  pony- 
chaise,  presented  her  by  her  father  on  her  birth- 
day for  her  especial  use  in  her  new  house ;  which 
vehicle  she  sent  back  on  arriving  at  the  inn,  the 
plan  agreed  upon  being  that  she  should  perform 
the  return  journey  with  her  husband  in  his  hired 
coach. 

There  was  not  much  accommodation  for  a  lady 
at  this  way-side  tavern ;  but,  as  it  was  a  fine  even- 
ing in  early  summer,  she  did  not  mind — walking 
about  outside,  and  straining  her  eyes  along  the 
highway  for  the  expected  one.  But  each  cloud 
of  dust  that  enlarged  in  the  distance  and  drew 
near  was  found  to  disclose  a  conveyance  other 
than  his  post-chaise.  Barbara  remained  till  the 
appointment  was  two  hours  passed,  and  then  be- 
gan to  fear  that  owing  to  some  adverse  wind  in 
the  Channel  he  was  not  coming  that  night. 

While  waiting  she  was  conscious  of  a  curious 
trepidation  that  was  not  entirely  solicitude,  and 
did  not  amount  to  dread ;  her  tense  state  of  in- 
certitude bordered  both  on   disappointment  and 


BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.     89 

on  relief.  She  had  lived  six  or  seven  weeks  with 
an  imperfectly  educated  yet  handsome  husband 
whom  now  she  had  not  seen  for  seventeen  months, 
and  who  was  so  changed  physically  by  an  acci- 
dent that  she  was  assured  she  would  hardly  know 
him.  Can  we  wonder  at  her  compound  state  of 
mind  ? 

But  her  immediate  difficulty  was  to  get  away 
from  Lornton  Inn,  for  her  situation  was  becominer 
embarrassing.  Like  too  many  of  Barbara's  ac- 
tions, this  drive  had  been  undertaken  without 
much  reflection.  Expecting  to  wait  no  more  than 
a  few  minutes  for  her  husband  in  his  post-chaise, 
and  to  enter  it  with  him,  she  had  not  hesitated  to 
isolate  herself  by  sending  back  her  own  little  ve- 
hicle. She  now  found  that,  being  so  well  known 
in  this  neighborhood,  her  excursion  to  meet  her 
long-absent  husband  was  exciting  great  interest. 
She  was  conscious  that  more  eyes  were  watch- 
ing her  from  the  inn  windows  than  met  her  own 
gaze.  Barbara  had  decided  to  get  home  by  hiring 
whatever  kind  of  conveyance  the  tavern  afforded, 
when,  straining  her  eyes  for  the  last  time  over  the 
now  darkening  highway,  she  perceived  yet  anoth- 
er dust-cloud  drawing  near.  She  paused;  a  char- 
iot ascended  to  the  inn,  and  would  have  passed 
had  not  its  occupant  caught  sight  of  her  standing 
expectantly.  The  horses  were  checked  on  the  in- 
stant. 

"You  here — and  alone,  my  dear  Mrs.Willowes?" 
said  Lord  Uplandtowers,  whose  carriage  it  was. 


90         A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

She  explained  what  had  brought  her  into  this 
lonely  situation;  and,  as  he  was  going  in  the  di- 
rection of  her  own  home,  she  accepted  his  offer  of 
a  seat  beside  him.  Their  conversation  was  em- 
barrassed and  fragmentary  at  first;  but  when  they 
had  driven  a  mile  or  two  she  was  surprised  to  find 
herself  talking  earnestly  and  .warmly  to  him  :  her 
impulsiveness  was  in  truth  but  the  natural  conse- 
quence of  her  late  existence — a  somewhat  desolate 
one  by  reason  of  the  strange  marriage  she  had 
made;  and  there  is  no  more  indiscreet  mood  than 
that  of  a  woman  surprised  into  talk  who  has  long 
been  imposing  upon  herself  a  policy  of  reserve. 
Therefore  her  ingenuous  heart  rose  with  a  bound 
into  her  throat  when,  in  response  to  his  leading 
questions,  or  rather  hints,  she  allowed  her  troubles 
to  leak  out  of  her.  Lord  Uplandtowers  took  her 
quite  to  her  own  door,  although  he  had  driven 
three  miles  out  of  his  way  to  do  so ;  and  in  hand- 
ing her  down  she  heard  from  him  a  whisper  of 
stern  reproach :  "  It  need  not  have  been  thus  if 
you  had  listened  to  me !" 

She  made  no  reply,  and  went  in-doors.  There, 
as  the  evening  wore  away,  she  regretted  more 
and  more  that  she  had  been  so  friendly  with  Lord 
Uplandtowers.  But  he  had  launched  himself 
upon  her  so  unexpectedly ;  if  she  had  only  fore- 
seen the  meeting  with  him,  what  a  careful  line  of 
conduct  she  would  have  marked  out !  Barbara 
broke  into  a  perspiration  of  disquiet  when  she 
thought  of  her  unreserve,  and,  in  self  -  chastise- 


BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.     91 

raent,  resolved  to  sit  up  till  midnight  on  the  bare 
chance  of  Edmond's  return  ;  directing  that  supper 
should  be  laid  for  him,  improbable  as  his  arrival 
till  the  morrow  was. 

The  hours  went  past,  and  there  was  dead  silence 
in  and  round  Yewsholt  Lodge,  except  for  the 
soughing  of  the  trees ;  till,  when  it  was  near  upon 
midnight,  she  heard  the  noise  of  hoofs  and  wheels 
approaching  the  door.  Knowing  that  it  could 
only  be  her  husband,  Barbara  instantly  went  into 
the  hall  to  meet  him.  Yet  she  stood  there  not 
without  a  sensation  of  faintness,  so  many  were 
the  changes  since  their  parting!  And,  owing  to 
her  casual  encounter  with  Lord  Uplandtowers,  his 
voice  and  image  still  remained  with  her,  excluding 
Edmond,  her  husband,  from  the  inner  circle  of  her 
impressions. 

But  she  went  to  the  door,  and  the  next  moment 
a  figure  stepped  inside,  of  which  she  knew  the 
outline,  but  little  besides.  Her  husband  was  at- 
tired in  a  flapping  black  cloak  and  slouched  hat, 
appearing  altogether  as  a  foreigner,  and  not  as 
the  young  English  burgess  who  had  left  her  side. 
When  he  came  forward  into  the  light  of  the  lamp, 
she  perceived  with  surprise,  and  almost  with 
fright,  that  he  wore  a  mask.  At  first  she  had  not 
noticed  this  —  there  being  nothing  in  its  color 
which  would  lead  a  casual  observer  to  think  he 
was  looking  on  anything  but  a  real  countenance. 

He  must  have  seen  her  start  of  dismay  at  the 
unexpectedness   of   his   appearance,  for  he  said. 


92  A   GROUP   OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

hastily:  "I  did  not  mean  to  come  in  to  you  like 
this — I  thought  you  would  have  been  in  bed. 
How  good  you  are,  dear  Barbara!"  He  put  his 
arm  round  her,  but  he  did  not  attempt  to  kiss  her. 

"  Oh,  Edmond — it  is  you  ? — it  must  be  ?"  she 
said,  with  clasped  hands,  for  though  his  figure  and 
movement  were  almost  enough  to  prove  it,  and 
the  tones  were  not  unlike  the  old  tones,  the  enun- 
ciation was  so  altered  as  to  seem  that  of  a  stran- 
ger. 

"  I  am  covered  like  this  to  hide  myself  from 
the  curious  eyes  of  the  inn-servants  and  others," 
he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  will  send  back  the 
cai'riage  and  join  you  in  a  moment." 

"  You  are  quite  alone  ?" 

"  Quite.  My  companion  stopped  at  Southamp- 
ton." 

The  wheels  of  the  post-chaise  rolled  away  a8 
she  entered  the  dining-room,  where  the  supper 
was  spread ;  and  presently  he  rejoined  her  there. 
He  had  removed  his  cloak  and  hat,  but  the  mask 
was  still  retained ;  and  she  could  now  see  that  it 
was  of  special  make,  of  some  flexible  material  like 
silk,  colored  so  as  to  represent  flesh ;  it  joined 
naturally  to  the  front  hair,  and  was  otherwise 
cleverly  executed. 

"  Barbara — you  look  ill,"  he  said,  removing  his 
glove,  and  taking  her  hand. 

"  Yes — I  have  been  ill,"  said  she. 

"  Is  this  pretty  little  house  ours  ?'* 

"Oh — yes."    She  was  hardly  conscious  of  her 


BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.     93 

words,  for  the  hand  he  had  ungloved  in  order  to 
take  hers  was  contorted,  and  had  one  or  two  of 
its  fingers  missing  ;  while  through  the  mask  she 
discerned  the  twinkle  of  one  eye  only. 

"  I  would  give  anything  to  kiss  you,  dearest, 
now,  at  this  moment !"  he  continued,  with  mourn- 
ful passionateness.  "But  I  cannot — in  this  guise. 
The  servants  are  abed,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "But  I  can  call  them?  You 
will  have  some  supper  ?" 

He  said  he  would  have  some,  but  that  it  was  not 
necessary  to  call  anybody  at  that  hour.  There- 
upon they  approached  the  table,  and  sat  down, 
facing  each  other. 

Despite  Barbara's  scared  state  of  mind,  it  was 
forced  upon  her  notice  that  her  husband  trembled, 
as  if  he  feared  the  impression  he  was  producing, 
or  was  about  to  produce,  as  much  as,  or  more 
than,  she.  He  drew  nearer  and  took  her  hand 
again. 

"  I  had  this  mask  made  at  Venice,"  he  began, 
in  evident  embarrassment.  "My  darling  Barbara 
— my  dearest  wife — do  you  think  you — will  mind 
when  I  take  it  off  ?  You  will  not  dislike  me — will 
you  ?" 

'*  Oh,  Edmond,  of  course  I  shall  not  mind,"  said 
she.  "  What  has  happened  to  you  is  our  misfort- 
une; but  I  am  prepared  for  it." 

"Are  you  sure  you  are  prepared  ?" 

**  Oh  yes.     You  are  my  husband." 

"You  really  feel  quiti;  confident  that  nothing 


94         A  GROUP  OP  NOBLE  DAMES. 

external  can  affect  you  ?"  be  said  again,  in  a  voice 
rendered  uncertain  by  bis  agitation. 

"  I  tbink  I  am — quite,"  sbe  answered,  faintly. 

He  bent  bis  bead.  "  I  bope — I  bope  you  are,"  be 
wbispered. 

In  tbe  pause  wbicb  followed,  tbe  ticking  of  tbe 
clock  in  tbe  ball  seemed  to  grow  loud;  and  be 
turned  a  little  aside  to  remove  tbe  mask.  She 
breathlessly  awaited  the  operation,  which  was  one 
of  some  tediousness,  watching  him  one  moment, 
averting  her  face  tbe  next;  and  when  it  was  done 
sbe  shut  her  eyes  at  tbe  hideous  spectacle  that 
was  revealed.  A  quick  S2:)asra  of  horror  had  pass- 
ed through  her ;  but  though  sbe  quailed  sbe 
forced  herself  to  regard  him  anew,  repressing  tbe 
cry  that  would  naturally  have  escaped  from  her 
ashy  lips.  Unable  to  look  at  him  longer,  Barbara 
sank  down  on  the  floor  beside  her  chair,  covering 
her  eyes. 

"  You  cannot  look  at  me !"  be  groaned,  in  a  hope- 
less way.  "I  am  too  terrible  an  object  even  for 
you  to  bear  !  I  knew  it ;  yet  I  hoped  against  it. 
Oh,  this  is  a  bitter  fate — curse  the  skill  of  those 
Venetian  surgeons  who  saved  me  alive!  .  .  .  Look 
up,  Barbara,"  he  continued,  beseechingly ;  "  view 
me  completely;  say  you  loathe  me,  if  you  do 
loathe  me,  and  settle  tbe  case  between  us  for- 
ever!" 

His  unhappy  wife  pulled  herself  together  for  a 
desperate  strain.  He  was  her  Edmond ;  he  had 
done  her  no  wrong;  be  bad  suffered.    A  moment- 


BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.     96 

ary  devotion  to  him  helped  her,  and  lifting  her 
eyes  as  bidden,  she  regarded  this  human  remnant, 
this  ^corche,  a  second  time.  But  the  sight  was 
too  much.  She  again  involuntarily  looked  aside 
and  shuddered. 

*'Do  you  think  you  can  get  used  to  this?"  he 
said.  "  Yes  or  no !  Can  you  bear  such  a  thing 
of  the  charnel-house  near  you  ?  Judge  for  your- 
self, Barbara.  Your  Adonis,  your  matchless  man, 
has  come  to  this !" 

The  poor  lady  stood  beside  him  motionless, 
save  for  the  restlessness  of  her  eyes.  All  her  nat- 
ural sentiments  of  affection  and  pity  were  driven 
clean  out  of  her  by  a  sort  of  panic ;  she  had  just 
the  same  sense  of  dismay  and  fearfulness  that  she 
would  have  had  in  the  presence  of  an  apparition. 
She  could  nohow  fancy  this  to  be  her  chose rj  one 
— the  man  she  had  loved  ;  he  was  metamorphosed 
to  a  specimen  of  another  species.  "I  do  not 
loathe  you,"  she  said,  with  trembling,  "  But  I 
am  so  horrified — so  overcome !  Let  me  recover 
myself.  Will  you  sup  now  ?  And  while  you  do 
so  may  I  go  to  my  room  to — regain  my  old  feel- 
ing for  you  ?  I  will  try,  if  I  may  leave  you  a 
while  ?     Yes,  I  will  try  1"  ^ 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer  from  him,  and 
keeping  her  gaze  carefully  averted,  the  frightened 
woman  crept  to  the  door  and  out  of  the  room. 
She  heard  him  sit  down  to  the  table,  as  if  to  be- 
gin supper ;  though.  Heaven  knows,  his  ai)petite 
was  slight  enough  after  a  reception  which  had 


96         A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMKS. 

confirmed  his  worst  surmises.  When  Barbara  had 
ascended  the  stairs  and  arrived  in  her  chamber 
she  sank  down,  and  buried  her  face  in  the  cover- 
let of  the  bed. 

Thus  she  remained  for  some  time.  The  bed- 
chamber was  over  the  dining-room,  and  presently 
as  she  knelt  Barbara  heard  Willowes  thrust  back 
his  chair  and  rise  to  go  into  the  hall.  In  five 
minutes  that  figure  would  probably  come  up  the 
stairs  and  confront  her  again — it,  this  new  and 
terrible  form  that  was  not  her  husband's.  In 
the  loneliness  of  this  night,  with  neither  maid 
nor  friend  beside  her,  she  lost  all  self-control, 
and  at  the  first  sound  of  his  footstep  on  the 
stairs,  without  so  much  as  flinging  a  cloak  round 
her,  she  flew  from  the  room,  ran  along  the  gallery 
to  the  back  staircase,  which  she  descended,  and, 
unlocking  the  back  door,  let  herself  out.  She 
scarcely  was  aware  what  she  had  done  till  she 
found  herself  in  the  greenhouse,  crouching  on  a 
flower-stand. 

Here  she  remained,  her  great  timid  eyes  strain-  { 

ed  through  the  glass  upon  the  garden  without, 
and  her  skirts  gathered  up,  in  fear  of  the  field- 
mice  which  sometimes  came  there.  Every  mo- 
ment she  dreaded  to  hear  footsteps  which  she 
ought  by  law  to  have  longed  for,  and  a  voice 
that  should  have  been  as  music  to  her  soul.  But 
Edmond  Willowes  came  not  that  way.  The 
nights  were  getting  short  at  this  season,  and  soon 
the  dawn  appeared,  and  the  first  rays  of  the  sun. 


? 


BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.     97 

By  daylight  she  had  less  fear  than  in  the  dark. 
She  thought  she  could  meet  him,  and  accustom 
herself  to  the  spectacle. 

So  the  much -tried  young  woman  unfastened 
the  door  of  the  hot-house,  and  went  back  by  the 
way  she  had  emerged  a  few  hours  ago.  Her 
poor  husband  was  probably  in  bed  and  asleep, 
his  journey  having  been  long  ;  and  she  made  as 
little  noise  as  possible  in  her  entry.  The  house 
was  just  as  she  had  left  it,  and  she  looked  about 
in  the  hall  for  his  cloak  and  hat,  but  she  could  not 
see  them ;  nor  did  she  perceive  the  small  trunk 
which  had  been  all  that  he  brought  with  him,  his 
heavier  baggage  having  been  left  at  Southampton 
for  the  road-wagon.  She  summoned  courage  to 
mount  the  stairs ;  the  bedroom  door  was  open 
as  she  had  left  it.  She  fearfully  peeped  round  ; 
the  bed  had  not  been  pressed.  Perhaps  he  had 
laid  down  on  the  dining-room  sofa.  She  descend- 
ed and  entered  ;  he  was  not  there.  On  the  table 
beside  his  unsoiled  plate  lay  a  note,  hastily  writ- 
ten on  the  leaf  of  a  pocket-book.  It  was  some- 
thing like  this: 

"My  Ever-beloyed  Wife, — The  effect  that 
my  forbidding  appearance  has  produced  upon 
you  was  one  which  I  foresaw  as  quite  possible. 
I  hoped  against  it,  but  foolishl}'  so.  I  was  aware 
that  no  human  love  could  survive  such  a  catas- 
trophe. I  confess  I  thought  yours  divine ;  but, 
after  so  long  an  absence,  there  could  not  be  left 
7 


98  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

sufficient  warmth  to  overcome  the  too  natural  first 
aversion.  It  was  an  experiment,  and  it  has  fail- 
ed. I  do  not  blame  you  ;  perhaps,  even,  it  is 
better  so.  Good-bye.  I  leave  England  for  one 
year.  You  will  see  me  again  at  the  expiration 
of  that  time,  if  I  live.  Then  I  will  ascertain  your 
true  feeling  ;  and,  if  it  be  against  me,  go  away 
forever.  E.  W." 

On  recovering  from  her  surprise,  Barbara's  re- 
morse was  such  that  she  felt  herself  absolutely 
unforgivable.  She  should  have  regarded  him  as 
an  afflicted  being,  and  not  have  been  this  slave 
to  mere  eyesight,  like  a  child.  To  follow  him 
and  entreat  him  to  return  was  her  first  thought. 
But  on  making  inquiries  she  found  that  nobody 
had  seen  him  ;  he  had  silently  disappeared. 

More  than  this,  to  undo  the  scene  of  last  night 
was  impossible.  Her  terror  had  been  too  plain, 
and  he  was  a  man  unlikely  to  be  coaxed  back  by 
her  efforts  to  do  her  duty.  She  went  and  con- 
fessed to  her  parents  all  that  had  occurred; 
which,  indeed,  soon  became  known  to  more  per. 
sons  than  those  of  her  own  family. 

The  year  passed,  and  he  did  not  return ;  and  it 
was  doubted  if  he  were  alive.  Barbara's  contri- 
tion for  her  unconquerable  repugnance  was  now 
such  that  she  longed  to  build  a  church-aisle,  or 
erect  a  monument,  and  devote  herself  to  deeds  of 
charity  for  the  remainder  of  her  days.  To  that 
end  she  made  inquiry  of  the  excellent  parson  un- 


BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBB.     99 

der  whom  she  sat  on  Sundays  at  a  vertical  dis- 
tance of  twenty  feet.  But  he  could  only  adjust 
his  wig  and  tap  his  snuffbox  ;  for  such  was  the 
lukewarm  state  of  religion  in  those  days,  that  not 
an  aisle,  steeple,  porch,  east  window,  Ten-Cora- 
raandmcnt  board,  lion-and-unicorn,  or  brass  candle- 
stick, was  required  anywhere  at  all  in  the  neigh- 
borhood as  a  votive  offering  from  a  distracted 
soul — the  last  century  contrasting  greatly  in  this 
respect  with  the  haj)py  times  in  which  we  live, 
when  urgent  appeals  for  contributions  to  such  ob- 
jects pour  in  by  every  morning's  post,  and  nearly 
all  churches  have  been  made  to  look  like  new 
pennies.  As  the  poor  lady  could  not  ease  her 
conscience  this  way,  she  determined  at  least  to 
be  charitable,  and  soon  had  the  satisfaction  of 
finding  her  porch  thronged  every  morning  by  the 
raggedest,  idlest,  most  drunken,  hypocritical,  and 
worthless  tramps  in  Christendom. 

But  human  hearts  are  as  prone  to  change  as 
the  leaves  of  the  creeper  on  the  wall,  and  in  the 
course  of  time,  hearing  ncjthing  of  her  husband 
Barbara  could  sit  unmoved  while  her  mother  and 
friends  said  in  her  hearing,  "  Well,  what  has  hap- 
pened is  for  the  best."  She  began  to  think  so 
herself,  for  even  now  she  could  not  summon  up 
that  lopped  and  mutilated  form  without  a  shiver, 
though  whenever  her  mind  flew  back  to  her  early 
wedded  days,  and  the  man  who  had  stood  beside 
her  then,  a  thrill  of  tenderness  moved  her,  which 
if  quickened  by  his  living  presence  might  have 


100  A  GROUP    OP  NOBLE   DAMES. 

become  strong.  She  was  young  and  inexperi- 
enced, and  had  hardly  on  his  late  return  grown  out 
of  the  capricious  fancies  of  girlhood. 

But  he  did  not  come  again,  and  when  she 
thought  of  his  word  that  he  would  return  once 
more,  if  living,  and  how  unlikely  he  was  to  break 
his  word,  she  gave  him  u])  for  dead.  So  did  her 
parents ;  so  also  did  another  person — that  man 
of  silence,  of  irresistible  incisiveness,  of  still  coun- 
tenance, who  was  as  awake  as  seven  sentinels 
when  he  seemed  to  be  as  sound  asleep  as  the  fig- 
ures on  his  family  monument.  Lord  Upland- 
towers,  though  not  yet  thirty,  had  chuckled  like 
a  caustic  fogy  of  threescore  when  he  heard  of 
Barbara's  terror  and  flight  at  her  husband's  re- 
turn, and  of  the  latter's  prompt  departure.  He 
felt  pretty  sure,  however,  that  Willowes,  despite 
his  hurt  feelings,  would  have  reappeared  to  claim 
his  bright-eyed  property  if  he  had  been  alive  at 
the  end  of  the  twelve  months. 

As  there  was  no  husband  to  live  with  her,  Bar- 
bara had  relinquished  the  house  prepared  for  them 
by  her  father,  and  taken  up  her  abode  anew  at 
Chene  Manor,  as  in  the  days  of  her  girlhood. 
By  degrees  the  episode  with  Edmond  Willowes 
seemed  but  a  fevered  dream,  and  as  the  months 
grew  to  years  Lord  Uplandtowers'  friendship 
with  the  people  at  Chene — which  had  somewhat 
cooled  after  Barbara's  elopement — revived  con- 
siderably, and  he  again  became  a  frequent  visitor 
there.     He  could  not  make  the  most  trivial  al- 


BARBARA,    OF    THE    HOUSE    OF    GREBE.  101 

teration  or  improvement  at  Knollingwood  Hall, 
where  lie  lived,  without  riding  off  to  consult  with 
his  friend  Sir  John  at  Chene ;  and  thus  putting 
himself  frequently  under  her  eyes,  Barbara  grew 
accustomed  to  him,  and  talked  to  him  as  freely 
as  to  a  brother.  She  even  began  to  look  up  to 
him  as  a  person  of  authority,  judgment,  and  pru- 
dence ;  and  though  his  severity  on  the  bench  tow- 
ards poachers,  smugglers,  and  turnip-stealers  was 
matter  of  common  notoriety,  she  trusted  that  much 
of  what  was  said  might  be  misrepresentation. 

Thus  they  lived  on  till  her  husband's  absence 
had  stretched  to  years,  and  there  could  be  no 
longer  any  doubt  of  his  death.  A  passionless 
manner  of  renewing  his  addresses  seemed  no  long- 
er out  of  place  in  Lord  Uplandtowers.  Barbara 
did  not  love  him,  but  hers  was  essentially  one  of 
those  sweet-pea  or  with-wind  natures,  which  re- 
quire a  twig  of  stouter  fibre  than  its  own  to  hang 
upon  and  bloom.  Now,  too,  she  was  older,  and 
admitted  to  herself  that  a  man  whose  ancestor  had 
run  scores  of  Saracens  through  and  through  in 
fighting  for  the  site  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  was 
a  more  desirable  husband,  socially  considered, 
than  one  who  could  only  claim  with  certainty  to 
know  that  his  father  and  grandfather  were  re- 
spectable burgesses. 

Sir  John  took  occasion  to  inform  her  that  she 
might  legally  consider  herself  a  widow ;  and,  in 
brief.  Lord  Uplandtowers  carried  his  point  with 
her,  and  she  married  him,  though  he  could  never 


I 


102  A  GROUP   OF   NOBLE  DAMES. 

get  her  to  own  that  she  loved  him  as  she  had 
loved  Willowes.  In  my  childhood  I  knew  an  old 
lady  whose  mother  saw  the  wedding,  and  she 
said  that  when  Lord  and  Lady  Uplandtowers 
drove  away  from  her  father's  house  in  the  evening 
it  was  in  a  coach-and-four,  and  that  my  lady  was 
dressed  in  green  and  silver,  and  wore  the  gayest 
hat  and  feather  that  ever  were  seen — though 
whether  it  was  that  the  green  did  not  suit  her 
complexion,  or  otherwise,  the  Countess  looked 
pale  and  the  reverse  of  blooming.  After  their 
marriage  her  husband  took  her  to  London,  and 
she  saw  the  gayeties  of  a  season  there  ;  then  they 
returned  to  Knollingwood  Hall,  and  thus  a  year 
passed  away. 

Before  their  marriage  her  husband  had  seemed 
to  care  but  little  about  her  inability  to  love  him 
passionately.  "Only  let  me  win  you,"  he  had 
said,  "and  I  will  submit  to  all  that."  But  now 
her  lack  of  warmth  seemed  to  irritate  him,  and 
he  conducted  himself  towards  her  with  a  resent- 
f  ulness  which  led  to  her  passing  many  hours  with 
him  in  painful  silence.  The  heir-presumptive  to 
the  title  was  a  remote  relative,  whom  Lord  Up- 
landtowers did  not  exclude  from  the  dislike  he 
entertained  towards  many  persons  and  things  be- 
sides, and  he  had  set  his  mind  upon  a  lineal  suc- 
cessor. He  blamed  her  much  that  there  was  no 
promise  of  this,  and  asked  her  what  she  was  good 
for. 

On  a  particular  day  in  her  gloomy  life  a  letter, 


BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.    103 

addressed  to  her  as  Mrs.  Willowes,  reached  Lady 
Uplandtowers  from  an  unexpected  quarter.  A 
sculptor  in  Pisa,  knowing  nothing  of  her  second 
marriage,  informed  her  that  the  long-delayed  life- 
size  statue  of  Mr.  Willowes,  which,  when  her  hus- 
band left  that  city,  he  had  been  directed  to  re- 
tain till  it  was  sent  for,  was  still  in  his  studio. 
As  his  commission  had  not  wholly  been  paid,  and 
the  statue  was  taking  up  room  he  could  ill  spare, 
he  should  be  very  glad  to  have  the  debt  cleared 
off,  and  directions  where  to  forward  the  figure. 
Arriving  at  a  time  when  the  Countess  was  begin- 
ning to  have  little  secrets  (of  a  harmless  kind, 
it  is  true)  from  lier  husband,  by  reason  of  their 
growing  estrangement,  she  replied  to  this  letter 
without  saying  a  word  to  Lord  Uplandtowers, 
sending  off  the  balance  that  was  owing  to  the 
sculptor,  and  telling  him  to  despatch  the  statue 
to  her  without  delay. 

It  was  some  weeks  before  it  arrived  at  Knol- 
lingwood  Hall,  and,  by  a  singular  coincidence, 
during  the  interval  she  received  the  first  abso- 
lutely conclusive  tidings  of  her  Edmond's  death. 
It  had  taken  place  yeai's  before,  in  a  foreign  land, 
about  six  months  after  their  parting,  and  had 
been  induced  by  the  sufferings  he  had  already 
undergone,  coupled  with  much  depression  of 
spirit,  which  had  caused  him  to  succumb  to  a 
slight  ailment.  The  news  was  sent  her  in  a  brief 
and  formal  letter  from  some  relative  of  Wil- 
lowes's  in  another  part  of  England. 


104  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

Her  grief  took  the  form  of  passionate  pity  for 
his  misfortunes,  and  of  reproach  to  herself  for 
never  having  been  able  to  conquer  her  aversion 
to  his  latter  image  by  recollection  of  what  Nat- 
ure had  originally  made  him.  The  sad  spectacle 
that  had  gone  from  earth  bad  never  been  her 
Edmond  at  all  to  her.  Oh,  that  she  could  have 
met  him  as  he  was  at  first !  Thus  Barbara 
thought.  It  was  only  a  few  days  later  that  a 
wagon  with  two  horses,  containing  an  immense 
packing-case,  was  seen  at  breakfast-time  both  by 
Barbara  and  her  husband  to  drive  round  to  the 
back  of  the  house,  and  by-and-by  they  were  in- 
formed that  a  case  labelled  "  Sculpture  "  had  ar- 
rived for  her  ladyship. 

"What  can  that  be?"  said  Lord  Upland- 
towers. 

"  It  is  the  statue  of  poor  Edmond,  which  be- 
longs to  me,  but  has  never  been  sent  till  now," 
she  answered. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  put  it  ?"  asked  he. 

"  I  have  not  decided,"  said  the  Countess. 
"Anywhere,  so  that  it  will  not  annoy  you." 

"  Oh,  it  won't  annoy  me,"  says  he. 

When  it  had  been  unpacked  in  a  back  room  of 
the  house,  they  went  to  examine  it.  The  statue 
was  a  full-length  figure  in  the  purest  Carrara 
marble,  representing  Edmond  Willowes  in  all  his 
original  beauty,  as  he  had  stood  at  parting  from 
her  when  about  to  set  out  on  his  travels — a  speci- 
men of  manhood  almost  perfect  in  every  line  and 


BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.    IQS 

contour.  The  work  had  been  carried  out  with 
absolute  fidelity, 

"Phoebus- Apollo,  sure,"  said  the  Earl  of  Up- 
landtowers,  who  had  never  seen  Willowes,  real 
or  represented,  till  now, 

Barbara  did  not  hear  him.  She  was  standing 
in  a  sort  of  trance  before  the  first  husband,  as 
if  she  had  no  consciousness  of  the  other  husband 
at  her  side.  The  mutilated  features  of  Willowes 
had  disappeared  from  her  mind's  eye ;  this  per- 
fect being  was  really  the  man  she  loved,  and  not 
that  later  pitiable  figure,  in  whom  love  and  truth 
should  have  seen  this  image  always,  but  had  not 
done  so. 

It  was  not  till  Lord  Uplandtowers  said,  rough- 
ly, "Are  you  going  to  stay  here  all  the  morning 
worshipping  hiniV"  that  she  roused  herself. 

Iler  husband  had  not  till  now  the  least  sus- 
picion that  Edmond  Willowes  originally  looked 
thus,  and  he  thought  how  deep  would  have  been 
his  jealousy  years  ago  if  Willowes  had  been 
known  to  him.  Returning  to  the  Hall  in  the  af- 
ternoon he  found  his  wife  in  the  gallery,  whither 
the  statue  had  been  brought. 

She  was  lost  in  reverie  before  it,  just  as  in  the 
morning. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  he  asked. 

She  started  and  turned.  "  I  am  looking  at  my 
husb — my  statue,  to  see  if  it  is  well  done,"  she 
stammered.     "  Why  should  I  not  ?" 

"  There's  no  reason  why,"  he  said.    "  What  arc 


106  A   GKOUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

you  going  to  do  with  the  monstrous  thing?    It 
can't  stand  here  forever." 

"  I  don't  wish  it,"  she  said.     "  I'll  find  a  place." 

In  her  boudoir  there  was  a  deep  recess,  and 
while  the  Earl  was  absent  from  home  for  a  few 
days  in  the  following  week  she  hired  joiners  from 
the  village,  who  under  her  directions  enclosed  the 
recess  with  a  panelled  door.  Into  the  tabernacle 
thus  formed  she  had  the  statue  placed,  fastening 
the  door  with  a  lock,  the  key  of  which  she  kept 
in  her  pocket. 

When  her  husband  returned  he  missed  the 
statue  from  the  gallery,  and,  concluding  it  had 
been  put  away  out  of  deference  to  his  feelings, 
made  no  remark.  Yet  at  moments  he  noticed 
something  on  his  lady's  face  which  he  had  never 
noticed  there  before.  He  could  not  construe  it ; 
it  was  a  sort  of  silent  ecstasy,  a  reserved  beatifi- 
cation. What  had  become  of  the  statue  he  could 
not  divine,  and  growing  more  and  more  curious, 
looked  about  here  and  there  for  it  till,  thinking 
of  her  private  room,  he  went  towards  the  spot. 
After  knocking  he  heard  the  shutting  of  a  door 
and  the  click  of  a  key  ;  but  when  he  entered,  his 
wife  was  sitting  at  work  on  what  was  in  those 
days  called  knotting.  Lord  Uplandtowers'  eye 
fell  upon  the  newly- painted  door  where  the  recess 
had  formerly  been. 

"You  have  been  carpentering  in  my  absence 
then,  Barbara,"  he  said,  carelessly. 

"Yes,  Uplandtowers." 


BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.    107 

"Why  did  you  go  putting  up  such  a  tasteless 
enclosure  as  that — spoiling  the  handsome  arch  of 
the  alcove?" 

"I  wanted  more  closet -room;  and  I  thought 
that  as  this  was  my  own  apartment — " 

"  Of  course,"  he  returned.  Lord  Uplandtowers 
knew  now  where  the  statue  of  young  Willowes 
was. 

One  night,  or  rather  in  the  smallest  hours  of 
the  morning,  he  missed  the  Countess  from  his 
side.  Not  being  a  man  of  nervous  imaginings 
he  fell  asleep  again  before  he  had  much  consider- 
ed the  matter,  and  the  next  morning  had  for- 
gotten the  incident.  But  a  few  nights  later 
the  same  circumstances  occurred.  This  time  he 
fully  roused  himself ;  but  before  he  had  moved 
to  search  for  her,  she  entered  the  chamber  in  her 
dressing-gown,  carrying  a  candle,  which  she  ex- 
tinguished as  she  approached,  deeming  him  asleep. 
He  could  discover  from  her  breathino-  that  she 
was  strangely  moved  ;  but  not  on  this  occasion 
either  did  he  reveal  that  he  had  seen  her.  Pres- 
ently, when  she  had  laid  down,  affecting  to  wake, 
he  asked  her  some  trivial  questions.  "  Yes,  Ed- 
mond,^^  she  replied,  absently. 

Lord  Uplandtowers  became  convinced  that  she 
was  in  the  habit  of  leaving  the  chamber  in  this 
queer  way  more  frequently  than  he  had  observed, 
and  he  determined  to  watch.  The  next  midnight 
he  feigned  deep  sleep,  and  shortly  after  perceived 
her  stealthily  rise  and  let  herself  out  of  the  room 


108  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

in  the  dark.  He  slipped  on  some  clothing  and 
followed.  At  the  farther  end  of  the  corridor, 
where  the  clash  of  flint  and  steel  would  be  out  of 
the  hearing  of  one  in  the  bed-chamber,  she  struck 
a  light.  He  stepped  aside  into  an  empty  room  till 
she  had  lit  a  taper  and  had  passed  on  to  her  bou- 
doir. In  a  minute  or  two  he  followed.  Arrived 
at  the  door  of  the  boudoir,  he  beheld  the  door  of 
the  private  recess  open,  and  Barbara  within  it, 
standing  with  her  arms  clasped  tightly  round  the 
neck  of  her  Edmond,  and  her  mouth  on  his.  The 
shawl  which  she  had  thrown  round  her  night- 
clothes  had  slipped  from  her  shoulders,  and  her 
long  white  robe  and  pale  face  lent  her  the  blanch- 
ed appearance  of  a  second  statue  embracing  the 
first.  Between  her  kisses,  she  apostrophized  it 
in  a  low  murmur  of  infantine  tenderness  : 

"My  only  love  —  how  could  I  be  so  cruel  to 
you,  my  perfect  one  —  so  good  and  true  —  I  am 
ever  faithful  to  you,  despite  my  seeming  infidel- 
ity !  I  always  think  of  you — dream  of  you — dur- 
ing the  long  hours  of  the  day  and  in  the  night- 
watches  !  Oh,  Edmond,  I  am  always  yours  !" 
Such  words  as  these,  intermingled  with  sobs,  and 
streaming  tears,  and  dishevelled  hair,  testified  to 
an  intensity  of  feeling  in  his  wife  which  Lord 
Uplandtowers  had  not  dreamed  of  her  possessing. 

"  Ha,  ha !"  says  he  to  himself.  "  This  is  where 
we  evaj^orate — this  is  where  ray  hopes  of  a  suc- 
cessor in  the  title  dissolve — ha,  ha!  This  must 
be  seen  to,  verily  !" 


BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.    109 


Lord  Uplandtowcrs  was  a  subtle  man  when 
once  he  set  himself  to  strategy,  though  in  the 
present  instance  he  never  thought  of  the  simple 
stratagem  of  constant  tenderness.  Nor  did  he 
enter  the  room  and  surprise  his  wife  as  a  blun- 
derer would  have  done,  but  went  back  to  his 
chamber  as  silently  as  he  had  left  it.  When  the 
Countess  returned  thither,  shaken  by  spent  sobs 
and  sighs,  he  appeared  to  be  soundly  sleeping  as 
usual.  The  next  day  he  began  his  countermoves 
by  making  inquiries  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  the 
tutor  who  had  travelled  with  his  wife's  first  hus- 
band ;  this  gentleman,  he  found,  was  now  master 
of  a  grammar-school  at  no  great  distance  from 
Knollingwood.  At  the  first  convenient  moment 
Lord  Uplandtowcrs  went  thither  and  obtained 
an  interview  with  the  said  gentleman.  The 
school-master  was  much  gratified  by  a  visit  from 
such  an  influential  neighbor,  and  was  ready  to 
communicate  anything  that  his  lordship  desired 
to  know. 

After  some  general  conversation  on  the  school 
and  its  progress,  the  visitor  observed  that  he 
believed  the  school  -  master  had  once  travelled 
a  good  deal  with  the  unfortunate  Mr.  Willowes, 
and  had  been  with  him  on  the  occasion  of  his  ac- 
cident, lie.  Lord  Ui)landtowers,  was  interested 
in  knowing  what  had  really  happened  at  that 
time,  and  had  often  thought  of  inquiring.  And 
then  the  Earl  not  only  hoard  by  word  of  mouth 
as  much  as  he  wished   to  know,  but,  their  chat 


110  A    GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMKS. 

becoming  more  intimate,  the  school-master  drew 
upon  paper  a  sketch  of  the  disfigured  head,  ex- 
plaining, with  bated  breath,  the  various  details  in 
the  representation. 

"  It  was  very  strange  and  terrible  !"  said  Lord 
Uplandtowers,  taking  the  sketch  in  his  hand. 
"  Neither  nose  nor  ears  !" 

A  poor  man  in  the  town  nearest  to  Knolling- 
wood  Hall,  who  combined  the  ai't  of  sign-painting 
with  ingenious  mechanical  occupations,  was  sent 
for  by  Lord  Uplandtowers  to  come  to  the  Hall 
on  a  day  in  that  week  when  the  Countess  had 
gone  on  a  short  visit  to  her  parents.  His  em- 
ployer made  the  man  understand  that  the  busi- 
ness in  which  his  assistance  was  demanded  was 
to  be  considered  private,  and  money  insured  the 
observance  of  this  request.  The  lock  of  the  cup- 
board was  picked,  and  the  ingenious  mechanic 
and  painter,  assisted  by  the  school-master's  sketch, 
which  Lord  Uplandtowers  had  put  in  his  pocket, 
set  to  work  upon  the  godlike  countenance  of  the 
statue  under  my  lord's  direction.  What  the  fire 
had  maimed  in  the  original  the  chisel  maimed  in 
the  copy.  It  was  a  fiendish  disfigurement,  ruth- 
lessly carried  out,  and  was  rendered  still  more 
shocking  by  being  tinted  to  the  hues  of  life,  as 
life  had  been  after  the  wreck. 

Six  hours  after,  when  the  workman  was  gone, 
Lord  Uplandtowers  looked  upon  the  result,  and 
smiled  grimly,  and  said  : 

"A  statue  should  represent  a  man  as  he  appear- 


BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.    Ill 

ed  in  life,  and  that's  as  he  appeared.  Ha !  ha  ! 
But  'tis  done  to  good  purpose,  and  not  idly." 

He  locked  the  door  of  the  closet  with  a  skele- 
ton-key, and  went  his  way  to  fetch  the  Countess 
home. 

That  night  she  slept,  but  he  kept  awake.  Ac- 
cording to  the  tale,  she  murmured  soft  words  in 
her  dream;  and  he  knew  that  the  tender  converse 
of  her  imaginings  was  held  with  one  whom  he 
had  supplanted  but  in  name.  At  the  end  of  her 
dream  the  Countess  of  Uplandtowers  awoke  and 
arose,  and  then  the  enactment  of  former  uierhts 
was  repeated.  Her  husband  remained  still  and 
listened.  Two  strokes  sounded  from  the  clock 
in  the  pediment  without,  when,  leaving  the  cham- 
ber door  ajar,  she  passed  along  the  corridor  to 
the  other  end,  where,  as  usual,  she  obtained  a 
light.  So  deep  was  the  silence  tliat  he  could 
even  from  his  bed  hear  her  softly  blowing  the  tin- 
der to  a  glow  after  striking  the  steel.  She  moved 
on  into  the  boudoir,  and  he  heard,  or  fancied  he 
heard,  the  turning  of  the  key  in  the  closet  door. 
The  next  moment  there  came  from  that  direction 
a  loud  and  prolonged  shriek,  wliich  resounded  to 
the  farthest  corners  of  the  house.  It  was  repeat- 
ed, and  there  was  the  noise  of  a  heavy  fall. 

Lord  Uplandtowers  sprang  out  of  bed.  He 
hastened  along  the  dark  corridor  to  the  door  of 
the  boudoir,  which  stood  ajar,  and,  by  the  light 
of  the  candle  within,  saw  his  poor  young  count- 
ess  lying  in  a  heap  in   her  niglit- dress  on  the 


112  A    GROUP    OP   NOBLE   DAMES. 

floor  of  the  closet.  When  he  reached  her  side 
he  found  that  she  had  fainted,  much  to  the  relief 
of  his  fears  that  matters  were  worse.  He  quick- 
ly shut  up  and  locked  in  the  hated  image  which 
had  done  the  mischief,  and  lifted  his  wife  in  his 
arms,  where  in  a  few  instants  she  opened  her 
eyes.  Pressing  her  face  to  his  without  saying 
a  word,  he  carried  her  back  to  her  room,  endeav- 
oring as  he  went  to  disperse  her  terrors  by  a 
laugh  in  her  ear,  oddly  compounded  of  caustic- 
ity, predilection,  and  brutality. 

"Ho  —  ho — ho!"  says  he,  " Frightened,  dear 
one,  hey  ?  What  a  baby  'tis !  Only  a  joke,  sure, 
Barbara — a  splendid  joke  !  But  a  baby  should 
not  go  to  closets  at  midnight  to  look  for  the 
ghost  of  the  dear  departed!  If  it  do  it  must  ex- 
pect to  be  terrified  at  his  aspect — ho — ho — ho  !" 

When  she  was  in  her  bed-chamber,  and  had 
quite  come  to  herself,  though  her  nerves  were  still 
much  shaken,  he  spoke  to  her  more  sternly.  "  Now, 
my  lady,  answer  me  ;  do  you  love  him — eh  ?" 

"  No — no  !"  she  faltered,  shuddering,  with  her 
expanded  eyes  fixed  on  her  husband.  "  He  is 
too  terrible — no,  no !" 

"  You  are  sure  ?" 

"Quite  sure!"  replied  the  poor  broken-spirited 
Countess. 

But  her  natural  elasticity  asserted  itself.  Next 
morning  he  again  inquired  of  her :  "  Do  you  love 
him  now?"  She  quailed  under  his  gaze,  but  did 
not  reply. 


BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.    113 

"  That  means  that  you  do  still,  by  G — !"  he 
continued. 

"  It  means  that  I  will  not  tell  an  untruth,  and 
do  not  wish  to  incense  my  lord,"  she  answered, 
with  dignity. 

"  Then  suppose  we  go  and  have  another  look 
at  him?"  As  he  spoke,  he  suddenly  took  her  by 
the  wrist,  and  turned  as  if  to  lead  her  towards 
the  ghastly  closet. 

"  No — no  !  Oh — no !"  she  cried,  and  her  des- 
perate wriggle  out  of  his  hand  revealed  that 
the  fright  of  the  night  had  left  more  impres- 
sion upon  her  delicate  soul  than  superficially  ap- 
peared. 

"  Another  dose  or  two,  and  she  will  be  cured," 
he  said  to  himself. 

It  was  now  so  generally  known  that  the  Earl 
and  Countess  were  not  in  accord,  that  he  took 
no  great  trouble  to  disguise  his  deeds  in  relation 
to  this  matter.  During  the  daj^  he  ordered  four 
men  with  ropes  and  rollers  to  attend  him  in  the 
boudoir.  When  they  arrived,  the  closet  was  open, 
and  the  upper  part  of  the  statue  tied  up  in  can- 
vas. He  had  it  taken  to  the  sleeping-chamber. 
What  followed  is  more  or  less  matter  of  conject- 
ure. The  story,  as  told  to  me,  goes  on  to  say 
that,  when  Latly  Uplandtowers  retired  with  him 
that  night,  she  saw  near  the  foot  of  the  heavy 
oak  four-poster  a  tall,  dark  wardrobe  which  had 
not  stood  there  befox'e  ;  but  she  did  not  ask  what 
its  presence  meant. 
8 


114  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

"I  have  bad  a  little  whim,"  he  explained,  when 
they  were  in  the  dark. 

"  Have  you  ?"  says  she. 

"  To  erect  a  little  shrine,  as  it  may  be  called." 

"  A  little  shrine  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  to  one  whom  we  both  equally  adore — 
eh?     I'll  show  you  what  it  contains." 

He  pulled  a  cord  which  hung  covered  by  the 
bed-curtains,  and  the  doors  of  the  wardrobe  slow- 
ly opened,  disclosing  that  the  shelves  within  had 
been  removed  throughout,  and  the  interior  adapt- 
ed to  receive  the  ghastly  figure,  which  stood  there 
as  it  had  stood  in  the  boudoir,  but  with  a  wax- 
candle  burning  on  each  side  of  it  to  throw  the 
cropped  and  distorted  features  into  relief.  She 
clutched  him,  uttered  a  low  scream,  and  buried 
her  head  in  the  bedclothes.  "  Oh,  take  it  away — 
please  take  it  away !"  she  implored. 

"All  in  good  time  ;  namely,  when  you  love  me 
best,"  he  returned,  calmly.  "  You  don't  quite  yet 
—eh?" 

"I  don't  know  —  I  think  —  oh,  Uplandtowers, 
have  mercy — I  cannot  bear  it — oh,  in  pity,  take 
it  away !" 

"  Nonsense ;  one  gets  accustomed  to  anything. 
Take  another  gaze." 

In  short,  he  allowed  the  doors  to  remain  un- 
closed at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  the  wax-tapers 
burning ;  and  such  was  the  strange  fascination  of 
the  grisly  exhibition  that  a  morbid  curiosity  took 
possession  of  the  Countess  as  she  lay,  and,  at  his 


BAEBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.    115 

repeated  request,  she  did  again  look  out  from  the 
coverlet,  shuddered,  hid  her  eyes,  and  looked 
again,  all  the  while  begging  him  to  take  it  away, 
or  it  would  drive  her  out  of  her  senses.  But  he 
would  not  do  so  as  yet,  and  the  wardrobe  was  not 
locked  till  dawn. 

The  scene  was  repeated  the  next  night.  Firm 
in  enforcing  his  ferocious  correctives,  he  contin- 
ued the  treatment  till  the  nerves  of  the  poor  lady 
were  quivering  in  agony  under  the  virtuous  tort- 
ures inflicted  by  her  lord,  to  bring  her  truant  heart 
back  to  faithfulness. 

The  third  night,  when  the  scene  had  opened  as 
usual,  and  she  lay  staring  with  immense  wild  eyes 
at  the  horrid  fascination,  on  a  sudden  she  gave  an 
unnatural  laugh ;  she  laughed  more  and  more, 
staring  at  the  image,  till  she  literally  shrieked 
with  laughter;  then  there  was  silence,  and  he 
found  her  to  have  become  insensible.  He  thought 
she  had  fainted,  but  soon  saw  that  the  event  was 
worse  ;  she  was  in  an  epileptic  fit.  He  started  up, 
dismayed  by  the  sense  that,  like  many  other  sub- 
tle personages,  he  had  been  too  exacting  for  his 
own  interests.  Such  love  as  he  was  capable  of, 
though  rather  a  selfish  gloating  than  a  cherish- 
ing solicitude,  was  fanned  into  life  on  the  instant. 
He  closed  the  wardrobe  with  the  pulley,  clasped 
her  in  his  arms,  took  her  gently  to  the  window, 
and  did  all  he  could  to  restore  her. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  the  Countess  came  to 
herself,  and  when  she  did  so  a  considerable  change 


116  A    GROUP    OF    NOBLE    DAMES. 

seemed  to  have  taken  place  in  her  emotions.  She 
flung  her  arms  around  him,  and  with  gasps  of  fear 
abjectly  kissed  him  many  times,  at  last  bursting 
into  tears.  She  had  never  wept  in  this  scene  be- 
fore. 

"  You'll  take  it  away,  dearest — you  will !"  she 
begged,  plaintively. 

"  If  you  love  me." 

"I  do— oh, I  do!" 

"And  hate  him  and  his  memory?" 

"  Yes— yes !" 

"  Thoroughly  ?" 

"I  cannot  endure  recollection  of  him!"  cried 
the  poor  Countess,  slavishly.  "It  fills  me  with 
shame — how  could  I  ever  be  so  depraved  !  I'll 
never  behave  badly  again,  Uplandtowers  ;  and 
you  will  never  put  the  hated  statue  again  before 
my  eyes?" 

He  felt  that  he  could  promise  with  perfect 
safety.     "  Never,"  said  he. 

"  And  then  I'll  love  you,"  she  returned,  eagerly, 
as  if  dreading  lest  the  scourge  should  be  applied 
anew.  "  And  I'll  never,  never  dream  of  thinking 
a  single  thought  that  seems  like  faithlessness  to 
my  marriage  vow." 

The  strange  thing  now  was  that  this  fictitious 
love  wrung  from  her  by  terror  took  on,  through 
mere  habit  of  enactment,  a  certain  quality  of  real- 
ity. A  servile  mood  of  attachment  to  the  Earl  be- 
came distinctly  visible  in  her  contemporaneously 
with  an  actual  dislike  for  her  late  husband's  mem- 


BARBARA,  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  GREBE.    117 

cry.  This  mood  of  attachment  grew  and  contin- 
ued when  the  statue  was  removed.  A  permanent 
revulsion  was  operant  in  her,  which  intensified  as 
time  wore  on.  How  fright  could  have  effected 
such  a  change  of  idiosyncrasy  learned  physicians 
alone  can  say ;  but  I  believe  such  cases  of  reac- 
tionary instinct  are  not  unknown. 

The  upshot  was  that  the  cure  became  so  perma- 
nent as  to  be  itself  a  new  disease.  She  clung  to 
hira  so  tightly  that  she  would  not  willingly  be 
out  of  his  sight  for  a  moment.  She  would  have 
no  sitting-room  apart  from  his,  though  she  could 
not  help  starting  when  he  entered  suddenly  to 
her.  Her  eyes  were  wellnigh  always  fixed  upon 
him.  If  he  drove  out,  she  wished  to  go  with  him; 
his  slightest  civilities  to  other  women  made  her 
frantically  jealous  ;  till  at  length  her  very  fidelity 
became  a  burden  to  him,  absorbing  his  time,  and 
curtailing  his  liberty,  and  causing  him  to  curse 
and  swear.  If  he  ever  spoke  sharply  to  her  now, 
she  did  not  revenge  herself  by  flying  off  to  a 
mental  world  of  her  own  ;  all  that  affection  for 
another,  which  had  provided  her  with  a  resource, 
was  now  a  cold,  black  cinder. 

From  that  time  the  life  of  this  scared  and  en- 
ervated lady — whose  existence  might  have  been 
developed  to  so  much  higher  purpose  but  for  the 
ignoble  ambition  of  her  parents  and  the  conven- 
tions of  the  time — was  one  of  obsequious  amative- 
ness  towards  a  perverse  and  cruel  man.  Little  per- 
sonal events  came  to  her  in  quick  succession — half 
I 


118  A   GROUP    OP    NOBLE   DAMES. 

a  dozen,  eight,  nine,  ten  such  events  ;  in  brief,  she 
bore  him  no  less  than  eleven  children  in  the  eight 
following  years,  but  half  of  them  came  premature- 
ly into  the  world,  or  died  a  few  days  old ;  only 
one,  a  girl,  attained  to  maturity  ;  she  in  after- 
years  became  the  wife  of  the  Honorable  Mr.  Bel- 
tonleigh,  who  was  created  Lord  D'Almaine,  as 
may  be  remembered. 

There  was  no  living  son  and  heir.  At  length, 
completely  worn  out  in  mind  and  body.  Lady  Up- 
landtowers  was  taken  abroad  by  her  husband,  to 
try  the  effect  of  a  more  genial  climate  upon  her 
wasted  frame.  But  nothing  availed  to  strengthen 
her,  and  she  died  at  Florence  a  few  months  after 
her  arrival  in  Italy. 

Contrary  to  expectation,  the  Earl  of  Upland- 
towers  did  not  marry  again.  Such  affection  as 
existed  in  him — strange,  hard,  brutal  as  it  was — 
seemed  untransferable,  and  the  title,  as  is  known, 
passed  at  his  death  to  his  nephew.  Perhaps  it 
may  not  be  so  generally  known  that,  during  the 
enlargement  of  the  Hall  for  the  sixth  earl,  while 
digging  in  the  grounds  for  the  new  foundations, 
the  broken  fragments  of  a  marble  statue  were  un- 
earthed. They  were  submitted  to  various  anti- 
quaries, who  said  that,  so  far  as  the  damaged 
pieces  would  allow  them  to  form  an  opinion,  the 
statue  seemed  to  be  that  of  a  mutilated  Roman 
satyr,  or,  if  not,  an  allegorical  figure  of  Death. 
Only  one  or  two  old  inhabitants  guessed  whose 
statue  those  fragments  had  composed. 


BARBARA,  OP  THE  HOUSK  OF  GREBE.    119 

I  should  have  added  that,  shortly  after  the 
death  of  the  Countess,  an  excellent  sermon  was 
preached  by  the  Dean  of  Melchester,  the  subject 
of  which,  though  names  were  not  mentioned,  was 
unquestionably  suggested  by  the  aforesaid  events. 
He  dwelt  upon  the  folly  of  indulgence  in  sensuous 
love  for  a  handsome  form  merely  ;  and  showed 
that  the  only  rational  and  virtuous  growths  of 
that  affection  were  those  based  upon  intrinsic 
worth.  In  the  case  of  the  tender  but  somewhat 
shallow  lady  whose  life  I  have  related,  there  is  no 
doubt  that  an  infatuation  for  the  person  of  young 
Willowes  was  the  chief  feeling  that  induced  her 
to  marry  him;  which  was  the  more  deplorable  in 
that  his  beauty,  by  all  tradition,  was  the  least  of 
his  recommendations,  every  report  bearing  out 
the  inference  that  he  must  have  been  a  man  of 
steadfast  nature,  bright  intelligence,  and  promis- 
ing life. 


The  company  thanked  the  old  surgeon  for  his 
story,  which  the  rural  dean  declared  to  be  a  far 
more  striking  one  than  anything  he  could  hope  to 
tell.  An  elderly  member  of  the  Club,  who  was 
mostly  called  the  Bookworm,  said  that  a  woman's 
natural  instinct  of  fidelity  would,  indeed,  send 
back  her  heart  to  a  man  after  his  death  in  a  truly 
wonderful  manner  sometimes  —  if  anything  oc- 
curred to  put  before  her  forcibly  the  original 
affection  between  them,  and  his  original  aspect  in 


120 


A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 


her  eyes — whatever  his  inferiority  may  have  been, 
social  or  otherwise  ;  and  then  a  general  conversa- 
tion ensued  upon  the  power  that  a  woman  has  of 
seeing  the  actual  in  the  representation,  the  reality 
in  the  dream — a  power  which  (according  to  the 
sentimental  member)  men  have  no  faculty  of 
equalling. 

The  rural  dean  thought  that  such  cases  as  that 
related  by  the  surgeon  were  rather  an  illustration 
of  passion  electrified  back  to  life  than  of  a  latent, 
true  affection.  The  story  had  suggested  that  he 
should  try  to  recount  to  them  one  which  he  had 
used  to  hear  in  his  youth,  and  which  afforded  an 
instance  of  the  latter  and  better  kind  of  feeling, 
his  heroine  being  also  a  lady  who  had  married 
beneath  her,  though  he  feared  his  narrative  would 
be  of  a  much  slighter  kind  than  the  surgeon's. 
The  Club  begged  him  to  proceed,  and  the  parson 
began. 


DAME   THE    THIRD. 

Ube  /iDarcbioncss  of  Stonebeiioe* 

BY  THE  RURAL  DEAN. 

I  WOULD  have  you  know,  then,  that  a  great 
many  years  ago  there  lived  in  a  dassical  mansion 
with  which  I  used  to  be  familiar,  standing  not  a 
hundred  miles  from  the  city  of  Melchester,  a  lady 
whose  personal  charms  were  so  rare  and  unparal- 
leled that  she  was  courted,  flattered,  and  si)oilt 
by  almost  all  the  young  noblemen  and  gentlemen 
in  that  part  of  Wcssex.  For  a  time  these  atten- 
tions pleased  her  well.  But  as,  in  the  words  of 
good  Robert  South  (whose  sermons  might  be  read 
much  more  than  they  are),  the  most  passionate 
lover  of  sport,  if  tied  to  follow  his  hawks  and 
hounds  every  day  of  his  life,  would  find  the  pur- 
suit the  greatest  torment  and  calamity,  and  would 
fly  to  the  mines  and  galleys  for  his  recreation,  so 
did  this  lofty  and  beautiful  lady  after  a  while  be- 
come satiated  with  the  constant  iteration  of  what 
she  had  in  its  novelty  enjoyed;  and  by  an  almost 
natural   revulsion  turned  her  regards  absolutely 


122  A    GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

netherward,  socially  speaking.  She  perversely 
and  passionately  centred  her  affection  on  quite  a 
plain-looking  young  man  of  humble  birth  and  no 
position  at  all,  though  it  is  true  that  he  was  gen- 
tle and  delicate  in  nature,  of  good  address,  and 
guileless  heart.  In  short,  he  was  the  parish -clerk's 
son,  acting  as  assistant  to  the  land-steward  of  her 
father,  the  Earl  of  Avon,  with  the  hope  of  becom- 
ing some  day  a  land-steward  himself.  It  should 
be  said  that  perhaps  the  Lady  Caroline  (as  she 
was  called)  was  a  little  stimulated  in  this  passion 
by  the  discovery  that  a  young  girl  of  the  village 
already  loved  the  young  man  fondly,  and  that  he 
had  paid  some  attentions  to  her,  though  merely 
of  a  casual  and  good-natured  kind. 

Since  his  occupation  brought  him  frequently  to 
the  manor-house  and  its  environs.  Lady  Caroline 
could  make  ample  opportunities  of  seeing  and 
speaking  to  him.  She  had,  in  Chaucer's  jihrase, 
"all  the  craft  of  fine  loving"  at  her  fingers'  ends, 
and  the  young  man,  being  of  a  readily -kindling 
heart,  was  quick  to  notice  the  tenderness  in  her 
eyes  and  voice.  He  could  not  at  first  believe  in 
his  good-fortune,  having  no  understanding  of  her 
weariness  of  more  artificial  men;  but  a  time  comes 
when  the  stupidest  sees  in  an  eye  the  glance  of 
his  other  half  —  and  it  came  to  him,  who  was 
quite  the  reverse  of  dull.  As  he  gained  confi- 
dence accidental  encounters  led  to  encounters  by 
design;  till  at  length,  when  they  were  alone  to- 
gether, there  was  no  reserve  on  the  matter.    They 


THE    MARCHIONESS    OP   STONEHENGE,  123 

whispered  tender  words  as  other  lovers  do,  and 
were  as  devoted  a  pair  as  ever  was  seen.  But  not 
a  ray  or  symptom  of  this  attachment  was  allowed 
to  show  itself  to  the  outer  world. 

Now,  as  she  became  less  and  less  scrupulous 
towards  him  under  the  influence  of  her  affection, 
and  he  became  more  and  more  reverential  under 
the  influence  of  his,  and  they  looked  the  situation 
in  the  face  together,  their  condition  seemed  intol- 
erable in  its  hopelessness.  That  she  could  ever 
ask  to  be  allowed  to  marry  him,  or  could  hold  her 
tongue  and  quietly  renounce  him,  was  equally  be- 
yond conception.  They  resolved  upon  a  third 
course,  possessing  neither  of  the  disadvantages  of 
these  two — to  wed  secretly,  and  live  on  in  out- 
ward appearance  the  same  as  before.  In  this  they 
differed  from  the  lovers  of  my  friend's  story. 

Not  a  soul  in  the  parental  mansion  guessea, 
when  Lady  Caroline  came  coolly  into  the  hall  one 
day  after  a  visit  to  her  aunt,  that,  during  tliat 
visit,  her  lover  and  herself  had  found  an  opportu- 
nity of  uniting  themselves  till  death  should  part 
them.  Yet  such  was  the  fact;  the  young  woman 
who  rode  fine  horses  and  drove  in  pony- chaises, 
and  was  saluted  deferentially  by  every  one,  and 
the  young  man  who  trudged  about  and  directed 
the  tree-felling  and  the  laying  out  of  fish-ponds 
in  the  park,  were  husband  and  wife. 

As  they  had  planned,  so  they  acted  to  the  let- 
ter for  the  space  of  a  month  and  more,  clandes- 
tinely meeting  when  and  where  they  best  could 


124  A    GROUP   OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

do  SO  ;  both  being  supremely  bappy  and  content. 
To  be  sure,  towards  the  latter  part  of  that  month, 
when  the  first  wild  warmth  of  her  love  bad  gone 
off,  the  Lady  Caroline  sometimes  wondered  with- 
in herself  how  she,  who  might  have  chosen  a  peer 
of  the  realm,  baronet,  knight — or,  if  serious-mind- 
ed, a  bishop  or  judge  of  the  more  gallant  sort  who 
prefer  young  wives — could  have  brought  herself  to 
do  a  thing  so  rash  as  to  make  this  marriage;  par- 
ticularly when,  in  their  private  meetings,  she  per- 
ceived that  though  her  young  husband  was  full  of 
ideas,  and  fairly  well  read,  they  had  not  a  single 
social  experience  in  common.  It  was  his  custom 
to  visit  her  after  nightfall  in  her  own  house, 
when  he  could  find  no  opportunity  for  an  inter- 
view elsewhere  ;  and  to  further  this  course  she 
would  contrive  to  leave  unfastened  a  window  on 
the  ground-floor  overlooking  the  lawn,  by  enter- 
ing which  a  back  staircase  was  accessible;  so  that 
he  could  climb  up  to  her  apartments,  and  gain 
audience  of  his  lady  when  the  house  was  still. 

One  dark  midnight,  when  he  had  not  been  able 
to  see  her  during  the  day,  he  made  use  of  this  se- 
cret method,  as  he  had  done  many  times  before ; 
and  when  they  had  remained  in  company  about 
an  hour  he  declared  that  it  was  time  for  him  to 
descend. 

He  would  have  stayed  longer  but  that  the  in- 
terview had  been  a  somewhat  painful  one.  What 
she  had  said  to  him  that  night  had  much  excited 
and  angered  him,  for  it  had  revealed  a  change  in 


THE   MARCHIONESS    OP   STONEHENGE.         125 

her;  cold  reason  had  come  to  his  lofty  wife  ;  she 
was  beginning  to  have  more  anxiety  about  her 
own  position  and  prospects  than  ardor  for  him. 
Whether  from  the  agitation  of  this  perception  or 
not,  he  was  seized  with  a  spasm;  he  gasped,  rose, 
and  in  moving  towards  the  window  for  air  he  ut- 
tered, in  a  short,  thick  whisper,  "  Oh,  my  heart !" 

With  his  hand  upon  his  chest  he  sank  down  to 
the  floor  before  he  had  gone  another  step.  By 
the  time  that  she  had  relighted  the  candle,  which 
had  been  extinguished  in  case  any  eye  in  the  oppo- 
site grounds  should  witness  his  egress,  she  found 
that  his  poor  heart  had  ceased  to  beat,  and  there 
rushed  upon  her  mind  what  his  cottage -friends 
had  once  told  her,  that  he  was  liable  to  attacks  of 
heart-disease,  one  of  which,  the  doctor  had  in- 
formed them,  might  some  day  carry  him  off. 

Accustomed  as  she  was  to  doctoring  the  other 
parishioners,  nothing  that  she  could  effect  upon 
him  in  that  kind  made  any  difference  whatever; 
and  his  stillness,  and  the  increasing  coldness  of 
his  feet  and  hands,  disclosed  too  surely  to  the 
affrighted  young  woman  that,  her  husband  was 
dead  indeed.  For  more  than  an  hour,  however, 
she  did  not  abandon  her  efforts  to  restore  him; 
when  she  fully  realized  the  fact  that  he  was  a 
corpse  she  bent  over  his  body,  distracted  and  be- 
wildered as  to  what  step  she  next  should  take. 

Her  first  feelings  had  undoubtedly  been  those  of 
passionate  grief  at  the  loss  of  him  ;  her  second 
thoughts  were  concern  at  her  own  position  as  the 


126  A   GROUP   OP   NOBLE   DAMES. 

daughter  of  an  earl.  "  Oh,  wliy,  why,  my  unfort- 
unate husband,  did  you  die  in  my  chamber  at  this 
hour  !"  she  said,  piteously,  to  the  corpse.  "  Why 
not  have  died  in  your  own  cottage  if  you  would 
die  !  Then  nobody  would  ever  have  known  of 
our  imprudent  union,  and  no  syllable  would  have 
been  breathed  of  how  I  mismated  myself  for  love 
of  you !" 

The  clock  in  the  court-yard  striking  the  hour  of 
one  aroused  Lady  Caroline  from  the  stupor  into 
which  she  had  fallen,  and  she  stood  up  and  went 
towards  the  door.  To  awaken  and  tell  her  mother 
seemed  her  only  way  out  of  this  terrible  situation; 
yet  when  she  put  her  hand  on  the  key  to  unlock 
it  she  withdrew  herself  again.  It  would  be  im- 
possible to  call  even  her  mother's  assistance  with- 
out risking  a  revelation  to  all  the  world  tjirough 
the  servants,  while  if  she  could  remove  the  body 
unassisted  to  a  distance  she  might  avert  suspicion 
of  their  union  even  now.  This  thought  of  immu- 
nity from  the  social  consequences  of  her  rash  act, 
of  renewed  freedom,  was  indubitably  a  relief  to 
her,  for,  as  has  b^en  said,  the  constraint  and  riski- 
ness of  her  position  had  begun  to  tell  upon  the 
Lady  Caroline's  nerves. 

She  braced  herself  for  the  effort,  and  hastily 
dressed  herself,  and  then  dressed  him.  Tying  his 
dead  hands  together  with  a  handkerchief,  she 
laid  his  arms  round  her  shoulders,  and  bore  him  to 
the  landing  and  down  the  narrow  stairs.  Reach- 
ing the  bottom  by  the  window,  she  let  his  body 


THE   MARCHIONESS    OP   STONEHENGE.  127 

slide  slowly  over  the  sill  till  it  lay  on  the  ground 
without.  She  then  climbed  over  the  window-sill 
herself,  and,  leaving  the  sash  open,  dragged  him 
on  to  the  lawn  with  a  rustle  not  louder  than  the 
rustle  of  a  broom.  There  she  took  a  securer  hold, 
and  plunged  with  him  under  the  trees. 

Away  from  the  precincts  of  the  house  she  could 
apply  herself  more  vigorously  to  her  task,  which 
was  a  heavy  one  enough  for  her,  robust  as  she 
was ;  and  the  exertion  and  fright  she  had  already 
undergone  began  to  tell  upon  her  by  the  time  she 
reached  the  corner  of  a  beech-plantation  which 
intervened  between  the  Manor-house  and  the  vil- 
lage. Here  she  was  so  nearly  exhausted  that  she 
feared  she  might  have  to  leave  him  on  the  spot, 
lint  she  plodded  on  after  a  while,  and  keeping 
upon  the  grass  at  every  opportunity  she  stood  at 
last  opposite  the  poor  young  man's  garden -gate, 
where  he  lived  with  his  father,  the  parish-clerk. 
How  she  accomplished  the  end  of  her  task  Lady 
Caroline  never  quite  knew;  but,  to  avoid  leaving 
traces  in  the  road,  she  carried  him  bodily  across 
the  gravel,  and  laid  him  down  at  the  door.  Per- 
fectly aware  of  his  ways  of  coming  and  going, 
she  searched  behind  the  shutter  for  the  cottasre 
door -key,  which  she  placed  in  his  cold  hand. 
Then  she  kissed  his  face  for  the  last  time,  and 
with  silent  little  sobs  bade  him  farewell. 

Lady  Caroline  retraced  her  steps,  and  reached 
the  mansion  without  hinderance,  and  to  her  great 
relief  found  the  window  open  just  as  she  had  left 


128        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

it.  When  she  had  climbed  in  she  listened  at- 
tentively, fastened  the  window  behind  her,  and 
ascending  the  stairs  noiselessly  to  her  room,  set 
everything  in  order,  and  returned  to  bed. 

The  next  morning  it  was  speedily  echoed 
around  that  the  amiable  and  gentle  young  vil- 
lager had  been  found  dead  outside  his  father's 
door,  which  he  had  apparently  been  in  the  act  of 
unlocking  when  he  fell.  The  circumstances  were 
sufficiently  exceptional  to  justify  an  inquest,  at 
which  syncope  from  heart-disease  was  ascertained 
to  be  beyond  doubt  the  explanation  of  his  death, 
and  no  more  was  said  about  the  matter  then. 
But  after  the  funeral  it  was  rumored  that  some 
man  who  had  been  returning  late  from  a  distant 
horse-fair  had  seen,  in  the  gloom  of  night,  a  per- 
son, apparently  a  woman,  dragging  a  heavy  body 
of  some  sort  towards  the  cottage-gate,  which,  by 
the  light  of  after-events,  would  seem  to  have  been 
the  corpse  of  the  young  fellow.  His  clothes  were 
thereupon  examined  more  particularly  than  at 
first,  with  the  result  that  marks  of  friction  were 
visible  upon  them  here  and  there,  precisely  resem- 
bling such  as  would  be  left  by  dragging  on  the 
ground. 

Our  beautiful  and  ingenious  Lady  Caroline  was 
now  in  great  consternation,  and  began  to  think 
that,  after  all,  it  might  have  been  better  to  hon- 
estly confess  the  truth.  But  having  reached 
this  stage  without  discovery  or  suspicion,  she  de- 
termined to  make  another  effort  towards  conceal- 


THE    MARCHIONESS    OF   STONEHENGE,  129 

ment ;  and  a  bright  idea  struck  her  as  a  means  of 
securing  it.  I  think  I  mentioned  that  before  she 
cast  eyes  on  the  unfortunate  steward's  clerk  he 
had  been  the  beloved  of  a  certain  village  damsel, 
the  woodman's  daughter,  his  neighbor,  to  whom 
he  had  paid  some  attentions ;  and  possibly  he  was 
beloved  of  her  still.  At  any  rate,  the  Lady  Car- 
oline's influence  on  the  estates  of  her  father  being 
considerable,  she  resolved  to  seek  an  interview 
with  the  young  girl,  in  furtherance  of  her  plan  to 
save  her  reputation,  about  which  she  was  now 
exceedingly  anxious ;  for  by  this  time,  the  fit 
being  over,  she  began  to  be  ashamed  of  her  mad 
passion  for  her  late  husband,  and  almost  wished 
she  had  never  seen  him. 

In  the  course  of  her  parish  visiting  she  lighted 
on  the  young  girl  without  much  difficulty,  and 
found  her  looking  pale  and  sad,  and  wearing  a 
simple  black  gown,  which  she  had  put  on  out  of 
respect  for  the  young  man's  memory,  whom  she 
had  tenderly  loved,  though  he  had  not  loved  her. 

"Ah,  you  have  lost  your  lover,  Mill}^"  said 
Lady  Caroline. 

The  young  woman  could  not  repress  her  tears. 
"  My  lady,  he  was  not  quite  my  lover,"  she  said. 
"  But  I  was  his — and  now  he  is  dead  I  don't  care 
to  live  any  more!" 

"  Can  you  keep  a  secret  about  him  ?"  asks  the 
lady — "one  in  which  his  honor  is  involved,  which 
is  known  to  me  alone,  but  should  be  known  to 
you  ?" 

0 


130  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

The  girl  readily  promised,  and,  indeed,  could 
be  safely  trusted  on  such  a  subject,  so  deep  was 
her  affection  for  the  youth  she  mourned. 

"  Then  meet  me  at  his  grave  to-night,  half  an 
hour  after  sunset,  and  I  will  tell  it  to  you,"  says 
the  other. 

In  the  dusk  of  that  spring  evening  the  two 
shadowy  figures  of  the  young  women  converged 
upon  the  assistant  steward's  newly-turfed  mound  ; 
and  at  that  solemn  place  and  hour  the  one  of  birth 
and  beauty  unfolded  her  tale  :  how  she  had  loved 
him  and  married  him  secretly ;  how  he  had  died 
in  her  chamber  ;  and  how,  to  keep  her  secret,  she 
had  dragged  him  to  his  own  door. 

"  Married  him,  my  lady  !"  said  the  rustic  maid- 
en, starting  back. 

"  I  have  said  so,"  replied  Lady  Caroline.  "  But 
it  was  a  mad  thing,  and  a  mistaken  course.  He 
ought  to  have  married  you.  You,  Milly,  were  pe- 
culiarly his.     But  you  lost  him." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  poor  girl ;  "  and  for  that  they 
laughed  at  me.  'Ha,  ha!  you  mid  love  him, 
Milly,'  they  said,  ' but  he  will  not  love  you.'" 

"Victory  over  such  unkind  jeerers  would  be 
sweet,"  said  Lady  Caroline.  "You  lost  him  in 
life,  but  you  may  have  him  in  death  as  if  you 
had  had  him  in  life,  and  so  turn  the  tables  upon 
them." 

"  How  ?"  said  the  breathless  girl. 

The  young  lady  then  unfolded  her  plan,  which 
was  that  Milly  should  go  forward  and  declare 


THE    MABCHIONESS    OF   STONEHENGE.  131 

that  the  young  man  had  contracted  a  secret  mar- 
riage (as  he  truly  had  done)  ;  that  it  was  with 
her,  Milly,  his  sweetheart ;  that  he  had  been  vis- 
iting her  in  her  cottage  on  the  evening  of  his 
death  ;  when,  on  finding  he  was  a  corpse,  she  had 
carried  him  to  his  house  to  prevent  discover^'-  by 
her  parents,  and  that  she  had  meant  to  keep  the 
whole  matter  a  secret,  till  the  rumors  afloat  had 
forced  it  from  her. 

"And  how  shall  I  prove  this?"  said  the  wood- 
man's daughter,  amazed  at  the  boldness  of  the 
proposal. 

"  Quite  sufficiently.  You  can  say,  if  necessary, 
that  you  were  married  to  him  at  the  church  of 
St.  Michael,  in  Bath  City,  in  my  name,  as  the  first 
that  occurred  to  you,  to  escape  detection.  That  was 
where  he  married  me.    I  will  support  you  in  this." 

"  Oh— I  don't  quite  like—" 

"  If  you  will  do  so,"  said  the  lady,  peremptori- 
ly, "  I  will  always  be  your  father's  friend  and 
yours ;  if  not,  it  will  be  otherwise.  And  I  will 
give  you  my  wedding-ring,  which  you  shall  wear 
as  yours." 

"  Have  you  worn  it,  my  lady  ?" 

"  Only  at  night." 

There  was  not  much  choice  in  the  matter,  and 
Milly  consented.  Then  this  noble  lady  took  from 
her  bosom  the  ring  she  had  never  been  able  open- 
ly to  exhibit,  and  grasping  the  young  girl's  hand, 
slipped  it  upon  her  finger  as  she  stood  upon  her 
lover's  grave. 


132  A.   GEOUP   OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

Milly  shivered,  and  bowed  her  head,  saying, 
"  I  feel  as  if  I  had  become  a  corpse's  bride  !" 

But  from  that  moment  the  maiden  was  heart 
and  soul  in  the  substitution.  A  blissful  repose 
came  over  her  spirit.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
had  secured  in  death  him  whom  in  life  she  had 
vainly  idolized ;  and  she  was  almost  content. 
After  that  the  lady  handed  over  to  the  young 
man's  new  wife  all  the  little  mementos  and  trin- 
kets he  had  given  herself,  even  to  a  locket  con- 
taining his  hair. 

The  next  day  the  girl  made  her  so-called  con- 
fession, which  the  simple  mourning  she  had  al- 
ready woi'n,  without  stating  for  whom,  seemed  to 
bear  out ;  and  soon  the  story  of  the  little  romance 
spread  through  the  village  and  country-side,  al- 
most as  far  as  Melchester.  It  was  a  curious  psy- 
chological fact  that,  having  once  made  the  avowal, 
Milly  seemed  possessed  with  a  spirit  of  ecstasy 
at  her  position.  With  the  liberal  sum  of  money 
supplied  to  her  by  Lady  Caroline  she  now  pur- 
chased the  garb  of  a  widow,  and  duly  appeared 
at  church  in  her  weeds,  her  simple  face  looking 
so  sweet  against  its  margin  of  crape  that  she  was 
almost  envied  her  state  by  the  other  village  girls 
of  her  age.  And  when  a  woman's  sorrow  for  her 
beloved  can  maim  her  young  life  so  obviously  as 
it  had  done  Milly's  there  was,  in  truth,  little  sub- 
terfuge in  the  case.  Her  explanation  tallied  so 
well  with  the  details  of  her  lover's  latter  move- 
ments— those  strange  absences  and  sudden  return- 


THE   MARCHIONESS    OF   STONEHENGE.  133 

ings  which  had  occasionally  puzzled  his  friends 
— that  nobody  supposed  for  a  moment  that  the 
second  actor  in  these  secret  nuptials  was  other 
than  she.  The  actual  and  whole  trutii  would,  in- 
deed, have  seemed  a  preposterous  assertion  beside 
this  plausible  one,  by  reason  of  the  lofty  demean- 
or of  the  Lady  Caroline  and  the  unassuming  hab- 
its of  the  late  villager.  There  being  no  inherit- 
ance in  question,  not  a  soul  took  the  trouble  to 
go  to  the  city  church,  forty  miles  off,  and  search 
the  registers  for  marriage  signatures  bearing  out 
so  humble  a  romance. 

In  a  short  time  Milly  caused  a  decent  tomb- 
stone to  be  erected  over  her  nominal  husband's 
grave,  whereon  appeared  the  statement  that  it  was 
placed  there  by  his  heart-broken  widow,w]uch, con- 
sidering that  the  payment  for  it  came  from  Lady 
Caroline  and  the  grief  from  Milly,  was  as  truthful 
as  such  inscriptions  usually  are,  and  only  required 
pluralizing  to  render  it  yet  more  nearly  so. 

The  impressionable  and  complaisant  Milly,  in 
her  character  of  widow,  took  delight  in  going 
to  his  grave  every  day,  and  indulging  in  sorrow 
which  was  a  positive  luxury  to  her.  She  placed 
fresh  flowers  on  his  grave,  and  so  keen  was  her 
emotional  imaginativeness  that  she  almost  be- 
lieved herself  to  have  been  his  wife  indeed  as  she 
walked  to  and  fro  in  her  garb  of  woe.  One  after- 
noon, Milly  being  busily  engaged  in  this  labor  of 
love  at  the  grave,  Lady  Caroline  passed  outside 
the  church-yard  wall  with  some  of  her  visiting 


134  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

friends,  who,  seeing  Milly  there,  watched  her  ac- 
tions with  interest,  remarked  upon  the  pathos  of 
the  scene,  and  upon  the  intense  affection  the  young 
man  must  have  felt  for  such  a  tender  creature  as 
Milly.  A  strange  light,  as  of  pain,  shot  from  the 
Lady  Caroline's  eye,  as  if  for  the  first  time  she 
begrudged  to  the  young  girl  the  position  she  had 
been  at  such  pains  to  transfer  to  her ;  it  showed 
that  a  slumbering  affection  for  her  husband  still 
had  life  in  Lady  Caroline,  obscured  and  stifled  as 
it  was  by  social  considerations. 

An  end  was  put  to  this  smooth  arrangement 
by  the  sudden  appearance  in  the  church-yard  one 
day  of  the  Lady  Caroline,  when  Milly  had  come 
there  on  her  usual  errand  of  laying  flowers.  Lady 
Caroline  had  been  anxiously  awaiting  her  behind 
the  chancel,  and  her  countenance  was  pale  and 
agitated. 

"  Milly,"  she  said,  "  come  here  !  I  don't  know 
how  to  say  to  you  what  I  am  going  to  say.  I  am 
half  dead !" 

"I  am  sorry  for  your  ladyship,"  says  Milly, 
wondering. 

"  Give  me  that  ring  !"  says  the  lady,  snatching 
at  the  girl's  left  hand. 

Milly  drew  it  quickly  away. 

"  I  tell  you,  give  it  to  me !"  repeated  Lady  Caro- 
line, almost  fiercely.  "  Oh — but  you  don't  know 
why !  I  am  in  a  grief  and  a  trouble  I  did  not  ex- 
pect !"  And  Lady  Caroline  whispered  a  few 
words  to  the  girl. 


THE   MARCHIONESS    OF   STONEHENGE,  135 

"  Oh,  my  lady  !"  said  tlie  thunderstruck  Milly. 
"  What  will  you  do  ?" 

"You  must  say  that  your  statement  was  a 
wicked  lie,  an  invention,  a  scandal,  a  deadly  sin 
— that  I  told  you  to  make  it  to  screen  me !  That 
it  was  I  whom  he  married  at  Bath.  In  short,  we 
must  tell  the  truth,  or  I  am  ruined — body,  mind, 
and  reputation — forever!" 

But  there  is  a  limit  to  the  flexibility  of  gentle- 
souled  women,  Milly  by  this  time  had  so  grown 
to  the  idea  of  being  one  flesh  with  this  young 
man,  of  having  the  right  to  bear  his  name  as  she 
bore  it ;  had  so  thoroughly  come  to  regard  him 
as  her  husband,  to  dream  of  him  as  her  husband, 
to  speak  of  him  as  her  husband,  that  she  could 
not  relinquish  him  at  a  moment's  perem^jtory 
notice. 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  desperately,  "I  cannot — I 
will  not — give  him  up  !  Your  ladyship  took  him 
away  from  me  alive,  and  gave  him  back  to  me 
only  when  he  was  dead.  Now  I  will  keep  him  ! 
I  am  truly  his  widow.  More  truly  than  you,  my 
lady,  for  I  love  him  and  mourn  for  him,  and  call 
myself  by  his  dear  name,  and  your  ladyship  does 
neither  !" 

"  I  do  love  him  !"  cries  Lady  Caroline,  with  flash- 
ing eyes,  "and  I  cling  to  him,  and  won't  let  him 
go  to  such  as  you  !  How  can  I,  when  he  is  tlu' 
father  of  this  poor  babe  that's  coming  to  me  ?  I 
must  have  him  back  again  !  Milly,  Milly,  can't 
you  pity  and  understand  me,  perverse  girl  that 


i36  A    GEOUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

you  are,  and  the  miserable  plight  that  I  am  in? 
Oh,  this  precipitancy — it  is  the  ruin  of  women  ! 
Why  did  I  not  consider,  and  wait !  Come,  give 
me  back  all  that  I  have  given  you,  and  assure  me 
you  will  support  me  in  confessing  the  truth  !" 

"  Never,  never  !"  persisted  Milly,  with  woe-be- 
gone  passionateness.  "  Look  at  this  headstone  ! 
Look  at  my  gown  and  bonnet  of  crape — this  ring  : 
listen  to  the  name  they  call  me  by !  My  character 
is  worth  as  much  to  me  as  yours  is  to  you  !  After 
declaring  my  love  mine,  myself  his,  taking  his 
name,  making  his  death  my  own  particular  sor- 
row, how  can  I  say  it  was  not  so  ?  No  such  dis- 
honor for  me  !  I  will  outswear  you,  my  lady  ; 
and  I  shall  be  believed.  My  story  is  so  much  the 
more  likely  that  yours  will  be  thought  false.  But, 
oh  please,  my  lady,  do  not  drive  me  to  this  !  In 
pity,  let  me  keep  him  !" 

The  poor  nominal  widow  exhibited  such  an- 
guish at  a  proposal  which  would  have  been  truly 
a  bitter  humiliation  to  her,  that  Lady  Caroline 
was  warmed  to  pity  in  spite  of  her  own  condition. 

"  Yes,  I  see  your  position,"  she  answered.  "  But 
think  of  mine  !  What  can  I  do  ?  Without  your 
support  it  would  seem  an  invention  to  save  me 
from  disgrace ;  even  if  I  produced  the  register, 
the  love  of  scandal  in  the  world  is  such  that  the 
multitude  would  slur  over  the  fact,  say  it  was 
a  fabrication,  and  believe  your  story.  I  do  not 
know  who  were  the  witnesses,  or  anything  !" 

In  a  few  minutes  these  two  poor  young  women 


THE    MARCHIONESS    OF   STONEHENGE.  137 

felt,  as  80  many  in  a  strait  have  felt  before,  that 
union  was  their  greatest  strength,  even  now  ;  and 
they  consulted  calmly  together.  The  result  of 
their  deliberations  was  that  Milly  went  home  as 
usual,  and  Lady  Caroline  also,  the  latter  confess- 
ing that  very  night  to  the  Countess,  her  mother, 
of  the  marriage,  and  to  nobody  else  in  the  world. 
And,  some  time  after.  Lady  Caroline  and  her 
mother  went  away  to  London,  where  a  little  while 
later  still  they  were  joined  by  Milly,  who  was 
supposed  to  have  left  the  village  to  proceed  to  a 
watering-place  in  the  North  for  the  benefit  of  her 
health,  at  the  expense  of  the  ladies  of  the  Manor, 
who  had  been  much  interested  in  her  state  of 
lonely  and  defenceless  widowhood. 

Early  the  next  year  the  widow  Milly  came  home 
with  an  infant  in  her  arms,  the  family  at  the  Man- 
or-house having  meanwhile  gone  abroad.  They 
did  not  return  from  their  tour  till  the  autumn 
ensuing,  by  which  time  Milly  and  the  child  had 
again  departed  from  the  cottage  of  her  father  the 
woodman,  Milly  having  attained  to  the  dignity  of 
dwelling  in  a  cottage  of  her  own,  many  miles  to 
the  eastward  of  lier  native  village  ;  a  comfortable 
little  allowance  had,  moreover,  been  settled  on  her 
and  the  child  for  life,  through  the  instrumentality 
of  Lady  Caroline  and  her  mother. 

Two  or  three  years  passed  away,  and  the  Lady 
Caroline  married  a  nobleman  —  the  Marquis  of 
Stonehenge  —  considerably  her  senior,  who  had 
wooed  her  long  and  phlcgmatically.     lie  was  not 


138  A   GEOUP   OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

rich,  but  she  led  a  placid  life  with  him  for  many- 
years,  though  there  was  no  child  of  the  mar- 
riage. Meanwhile  Milly's  boy,  as  the  youngster 
was  called,  and  as  Milly  herself  considered  him, 
grew  up  and  throve  wonderfully,  and  loved  her 
as  she  deserved  to  be  loved  for  her  devotion 
to  him,  in  whom  she  every  day  traced  more  dis- 
tinctly the  lineaments  of  the  man  who  had  won 
her  girlish  heart,  and  kept  it  even  in  the  tomb. 

She  educated  him  as  well  as  she  could  with  the 
limited  means  at  her  disposal,  for  the  allowance 
had  never  been  increased.  Lady  Caroline,  or  the 
Marchioness  of  Stonehenge  as  she  now  was,  seem- 
ing by  degrees  to  care  little  what  had  become  of 
them.  Milly  became  extremely  ambitious  on  the 
boy's  account ;  she  pinched  herself  almost  of  nec- 
essaries to  send  him  to  the  grammar-school  in  the 
town  to  which  they  retired,  and  at  twenty  he  en- 
listed in  a  cavalry  regiment,  joining  it  with  a 
deliberate  intent  of  making  the  army  his  profes- 
sion and  not  in  a  freak  of  idleness.  His  excep- 
tional attainments,  his  manly  bearing,  his  steady 
conduct,  speedily  won  him  promotion,  which  was 
furthered  by  the  serious  war  in  which  his  coun- 
try was  at  that  time  engaged.  On  his  return  to 
England  after  the  peace  he  had  risen  to  the  rank 
of  riding-master,  and  was  soon  after  advanced  an- 
other stage,  and  made  quartermaster,  though  still 
a  young  man. 

His  mother — his  corporeal  mother,  that  is,  the 
Marchioness  of  Stonehenge — heard  tidings  of  this 


THE    MARCHIONESS    OF   STONEHENGE,  139 

unaided  progress  ;  it  reawakened  her  maternal  in- 
stincts and  filled  her  with  pride.  She  became 
keenly  interested  in  her  successful  soldier-son  ; 
and  as  she  grew  older  much  wished  to  see  him 
again,  particularly  when,  the  Marquis  dying,  she 
was  left  a  solitary  and  childless  widow.  Whether 
or  not  she  would  have  gone  to  him  of  her  own 
impulse  I  cannot  say  ;  but  one  day,  when  she  was 
driving  in  an  open  carriage  in  the  outskirts  of  a 
neighboring  town,  the  troops  lying  at  the  bar- 
racks hard  by  passed  her  in  marching  order.  She 
eyed  them  narrowly,  and  in  the  finest  of  the  horse- 
men recognized  her  son  from  his  likeness  to  her 
first  husband. 

This  sight  of  him  doubly  intensified  the  moth- 
erly emotions  which  had  lain  dormant  in  her  for 
so  many  years,  and  she  wildly  asked  herself  how 
she  could  so  have  neglected  him.  Had  she  pos- 
sessed the  true  courage  of  affection  she  would 
have  owned  to  her  first  marriage,  and  have  reared 
him  as  her  son  !  What  would  it  have  mattered 
if  she  had  never  obtained  this  precious  coronet  of 
pearls  and  gold  leaves,  by  comparison  with  the 
gain  of  having  the  love  and  protection  of  such  a 
noble  and  worthy  son  ?  These  and  other  sad  re- 
flections cut  the  gloomy  and  solitary  lady  to  the 
heart,  and  she  repented  of  lier  pride  in  disclaim- 
ing her  first  husband  more  bitterly  than  she  had 
ever  repented  of  her  infatuation  in  marrying  him. 

Her  yearning  was  so  strong  that  at  length  it 
seemed   to  her  that  she  could  not   live  without 


140 


A   GROUP   OP   NOBLE   DAMES. 


announcing  herself  to  him  as  his  mother.  Come 
what  might,  she  would  do  it ;  late  as  it  was,  she 
would  have  him  away  from  that  woman  whom 
she  began  to  hate  with  the  fierceness  of  a  deserted 
heart,  for  having  taken  her  place  as  the  mother 
of  her  only  child.  She  felt  confidently  enough 
that  her  son  would  only  too  gladly  exchange  a 
cottage  mother  for  one  who  was  a  peeress  of  the 
realm.  Being  now,  in  her  widowhood,  free  to 
come  and  go  as  she  chose  without  question 
from  anybody,  Lady  Stonehenge  started  next 
day  for  the  little  town  where  Milly  yet  lived, 
still  in  her  robes  of  sable  for  the  lost  lover  of  her 
youth. 

"He  is  my  son,"  said  the  Marchioness,  as  soon 
as  she  was  alone  in  the  cottage  with  Milly.  "You 
must  give  him  back  to  me,  now  that  I  am  in  a 
position  in  which  I  can  defy  the  world's  opinion. 
I  suppose  he  comes  to  see  you  continually  ?" 

"Every  month  since  he  returned  from  the  war, 
ray  lady.  And  sometimes  he  stays  two  or  three 
days,  and  takes  me  about  seeing  sights  every- 
where !"     She  spoke  with  quiet  triumph. 

"  Well,  you  will  have  to  give  him  up,"  said  the 
Marchioness,  calmly.  "  It  shall  not  be  the  worse 
for  you — you  may  see  him  when  you  choose.  I 
am  going  to  avow  my  first  marriage  and  have 
him  with  me." 

"  You  forget  that  there  are  two  to  be  reckoned 
with,  my  lady.     Not  only  me,  but  himself." 

"That  can  be  arranged.     You  don't  suppose 


THE   MARCHIONESS    OF   STONEHENGE.         141 

that  he  wouldn't — "  But  not  wishing  to  insult 
Milly  by  comparing  their  positions,  she  said,  "  He 
is  my  own  flesh  and  blood,  not  yours." 

"  Flesh  and  blood's  nothing  !"  said  Milly,  flash- 
ing with  as  much  scorn  as  a  cottager  could  show 
to  a  peeress,  which,  in  this  case,  was  not  so  little  as 
may  be  supposed.  "  But  I  will  agree  to  put  it  to 
him,  and  let  him  settle  it  for  himself." 

"  That's  all  I  require,"  said  Lady  Stonehenge. 
"  You  must  ask  him  to  come,  and  I  will  meet  him 
here." 

The  soldier  was  written  to,  and  the  meeting 
took  place.  He  was  not  so  much  astonished  at 
the  disclosure  of  his  parentage  as  Lady  Stone- 
henge had  been  led  to  expect,  having  known  for 
years  that  there  was  a  little  mystery  al)Out  his 
birth.  His  manner  towards  the  Marchioness, 
though  respectful,  was  less  warm  than  she  could 
have  hoped.  The  alternatives  as  to  his  choice 
of  a  mother  were  put  before  him.  His  answer 
amazed  and  stupefied  her. 

"No,  my  lady,"  he  said.  "Thank  you  much, 
but  I  prefer  to  let  things  be  as  they  have  been. 
My  father's  name  is  mine,  in  any  case.  You  see, 
my  lady,  you  cared  little  for  me  when  I  was  weak 
and  helpless.  Why  should  I  come  to  you  now  I  am 
strong  ?  She — dear,  devoted  soul  " — pointing  to 
Milly — "  tended  me  from  my  birth,  watched  over 
me,  nursed  me  when  I  was  ill,  and  deprived  her- 
self of  many  a  little  comfort  to  push  me  on.  T 
cannot  love  another  mother  as  I  love  her.     She  is 


142 


A   GROUP    OF    NOBLE    DAMES. 


my  mother,  and  I  will  always  be  her  son  !"  As  he 
spoke  he  put  his  manly  arm  around  Milly's  neck, 
and  kissed  her  with  the  tenderest  affection. 

The  agony  of  the  poor  Marchioness  was  piti- 
able. "You  kill  me  !"  she  said,  between  her  shak- 
ing sobs.     "  Cannot  you — love — me — too  ?" 

"No,  my  lady.  If  I  must  say  it,  you  were 
ashamed  of  my  poor  father,  who  was  a  sincere 
and  honest  man  ;  therefore,  I  am  ashamed  of 
you." 

Nothing  would  move  him  ;  and  the  suffering 
woman  at  last  gasped,  "  Cannot — oh,  cannot  you 
give  one  kiss  to  me — as  you  did  to  her?  It  is  not 
much — it  is  all  I  ask — all !" 

"  Certainly,"  he  replied. 

He  kissed  her  coldly,  and  the  painful  scene 
came  to  an  end.  That  day  was  the  beginning  of 
death  to  the  unfortunate  Marchioness  of  Stone- 
henge.  It  was  in  the  perverseness  of  her  human 
heart  that  his  denial  of  her  should  add  fuel  to  the 
fire  of  her  craving  for  his  love.  How  long  after- 
wards she  lived  I  do  not  know  with  any  exact- 
ness, but  it  was  no  great  length  of  time.  That 
anguish  that  is  sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth 
wore  her  out  soon.  Utterly  reckless  of  the  world, 
its  ways  and  its  opinions,  she  allowed  her  story 
to  become  known  ;  and  when  the  welcome  end 
supervened  (which,  I  grieve  to  say,  she  refused  to 
lighten  by  the  consolations  of  religion),  a  broken 
heart  was  the  truest  phrase  in  which  to  sum  up 
its  cause. 


THE   MARCIIIONESS    OF   STONEHENGE.  143 

The  rural  dean  having  concluded,  some  obser- 
vations upon  his  tale  were  made  in  due  course. 
The  sentimental  member  said  that  Lady  Caro- 
line's history  afforded  a  sad  instance  of  how  an 
honest  human  affection  will  become  shamefaced 
and  mean  under  the  frost  of  class-division  and 
social  prejudices.  She  probably  deserved  some 
pity  ;  though  her  offspring,  before  he  grew  up  to 
man's  estate,  had  deserved  more.  There  was  no 
pathos  like  the  pathos  of  childhood,  when  a  child 
found  itself  in  a  world  where  it  was  not  wanted, 
and  could  not  understand  the  reason  why.  A  tale 
by  the  speaker,  further  illustrating  the  same  sub- 
ject, though  with  different  results  from  the  last, 
naturally  followed. 


DAME  THE  FOURTH. 

Xa&^  /IDottisfont 

BY  THE  SENTIMENTAL  MEMBER. 

Of  all  the  romantic  towns  in  Wessex,  Winton- 
cester  is  probably  tbe  most  convenient  for  medi- 
tative people  to  live  in,  since  there  you  have  a 
cathedral  with  a  nave  so  long  that  it  affords  space 
in  which  to  walk  and  summon  your  remoter  moods 
without  continually  turning  on  your  heel,  or  seem- 
ing to  do  more  than  take  an  afternoon  stroll  under 
cover  from  the  rain  or  sun.  In  an  uninterrupted 
course  of  nearly  three  hundred  steps  eastward, 
and  again  nearly  three  hundred  steps  westward 
amid  those  magnificent  tombs,  you  can,  for  in- 
stance, compare  in  the  most  leisurely  way  the  dry 
dustiness  which  ultimately  pervades  the  persons 
of  kings  and  bishops  with  the  damper  dustiness 
that  is  usually  the  final  shape  of  commoners, 
curates,  and  others  who  take  their  last  rest  out 
of  doors.  Then,  if  you  are  in  love,  you  can,  by 
sauntering  in  the  chapels  and  behind  the  Episco- 
pal chantries  with  the  bright-eyed  one,  so  steep 


LADY    MOTTISFONT.  145 

and  mellow  your  ecstasy  in  the  solemnities  around, 
that  it  will  assume  a  rarer  and  finer  tincture,  even 
more  grateful  to  the  understanding,  if  not  to  the 
senses,  than  that  form  of  the  emotion  which 
arises  from  such  companionship  in  spots  where 
all  is  life  and  growth  and  fecundity. 

It  was  in  this  solemn  place,  whither  they  had 
withdrawn  from  the  sight  of  relatives  on  one  cold 
day  in  March,  that  Sir  Ashley  Mottisfont  asked 
in  marriage,  as  his  second  wife,  Pliilippa,  the  gen- 
tle daughter  of  plain  Squire  Okehall.  Her  life 
bad  been  an  obscure  one  thus  far,  while  Sir  Ash- 
ley, though  not  a  rich  man,  had  a  certain  distinc- 
tion about  him ;  so  that  everybody  thought  what 
a  convenient,  elevating,  and,  in  a  word,  blessed 
match  it  would  be  for  such  a  supernumerary  as 
she.  Nobody  thought  so  more  than  the  amiable 
girl  herself.  She  had  been  smitten  with  such 
affection  for  him  that,  when  she  walked  the  ca- 
thedral aisles  at  his  side  on  the  before-mentioned 
day,  she  did  not  know  that  her  feet  touched  hard 
pavement ;  it  seemed  to  her  rather  that  she  was 
floating  in  space.  Philippa  was  an  ecstatic,  heart- 
thumping  maiden,  and  could  not  understand  how 
she  had  deserved  to  have  sent  to  her  such  an  il- 
lustrious lover,  such  a  travelled  personage,  such  a 
handsome  man. 

AVhen  he  put  the  question,  it  was  in  no  clumsy 
language,  such  as  the  ordinary  bucolic  county 
landlords  were  wont  to  use  on  like  quivering  oc- 
casions, but  as  elegantly  as  if  he  had  been  taught 
10 


146  A    GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES, 

it  in  Enfield's  Speaker.  Yet  he  hesitated  a  little 
— for  he  had  something  to  add. 

"My  pretty  Philippa,"  he  said  (she  was  not 
very  pretty,  by  the  way),  "I  have,  you  must  know, 
a  little  girl  dependent  upon  me  :  a  little  waif  I 
found  one  day  in  a  patch  of  wild  oats  " — such  was 
this  worthy  baronet's  humor — "when  I  was  rid- 
ing home  :  a  little  nameless  creature,  whom  I  wish 
to  take  care  of  till  she  is  old  enough  to  take  care 
of  herself,  and  to  educate  in  a  plain  way.  She  is 
only  fifteen  months  old,  and  is  at  present  in  the 
hands  of  a  kind  villager's  wife  in  my  parish. 
Will  you  object  to  give  some  attention  to  the 
little  thing  in  her  helplessness?" 

It  need  hardly  be  said  that  our  innocent  young 
lady,  loving  him  so  deeply  and  joyfully  as  she  did, 
replied  that  she  would  do  all  she  could  for  the 
nameless  child ;  and  shortly  afterwards  the  pair 
were  married  in  the  same  cathedral  that  had 
echoed  the  whispers  of  his  declaration,  the  officiat- 
ing minister  being  the  Bishop  himself,  a  vener- 
able and  experienced  man,  so  well  accomplished 
in  uniting  people  who  had  a  mind  for  that  sort  of 
experiment,  that  the  couple,  with  some  sense  of 
surprise,  found  themselves  one  while  they  were 
still  vaguely  gazing  at  nach  other  as  two  inde- 
pendent beings. 

After  this  operation  they  went  home  to  Deans- 
leigh  Park,  and  made  a  beginning  of  living  hap- 
pily ever  after.  Lady  Mottisfont,  true  to  her 
promise,  was  always  running  down  to  the  village 


\ 


LADY    MOTTISFONT.  147 

during  the  following  weeks  to  see  the  baby  whom 
her  husband  had  so  mysteriously  lighted  on  dur- 
ing his  ride  home — concerning  which  interesting 
discovery  she  had  her  own  oiDinion  ;  but  being  so 
extremely  amiable  and  affectionate  that  she  could 
have  loved  stocks  and  stones  if  there  had  been  no 
living  creatures  to  love,  she  uttered  none  of  her 
thoughts.  The  little  thing,  who  had  been  chris- 
tened Dorothy,  took  to  Lady  Mottisfont  as  if  the 
Baronet's  young  wife  had  been  her  mother ;  and 
at  length  Pliilippa  grew  so  fond  of  the  child  that 
she  ventured  to  ask  her  husband  if  she  might 
have  'Dorothy  in  her  own  home,  and  bring  her  up 
carefully,  just  as  if  she  were  her  own.  To  this 
be  answered  that,  though  remarks  might  be  made 
thereon,  he  bad  no  objection — a  fact  which  was 
obvious.  Sir  Ashley  seeming  rather  pleased  than 
otherwise  with  the  proposal. 

After  this  they  lived  quietly  and  uneventfully 
for  two  or  three  years  at  Sir  Asliley  Mottisfont's 
residence  in  that  part  of  England,  with  as  near  an 
approach  to  bliss  as  the  climate  of  this  country 
allows.  The  child  had  been  a  godsend  to  Phi- 
lippa,  for  there  seemed  no  great  probability  of 
her  having  one  of  her  own  :  and  she  wisely  re- 
garded the  possession  of  Dorothy  as  a  special 
kindness  of  Providence,  and  did  not  worry  her 
mind  at  all  as  to  Dorothy's  possible  origin.  Be- 
ing a  tender  and  impulsive  creature,  she  loved  her 
husband  without  criticism,  exhaustively  and  relig- 
iously, and  the  child  not  much  otherwise.     She 


148        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

watched  the  little  foundling  as  if  she  had  been 
her  own  by  nature,  and  Dorothy  became  a  great 
solace  to  her  when  her  husband  was  absent  on 
pleasure  or  business  ;  and  when  he  came  home  he 
looked  pleased  to  see  how  the  two  had  won  each 
other's  hearts.  Sir  Ashley  would  kiss  his  wife, 
and  his  wife  would  kiss  little  Dorothy,  and  little 
Dorothy  would  kiss  Sir  Ashley,  and  after  this 
triangular  burst  of  affection  Lady  Mottisfont 
would  say,  "  Dear  me  —  I  forget  she  is  not 
mine !" 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?"  her  husband  would 
reply.  "Providence  is  foreknowing.  He  has  sent 
us  this  one  because  He  is  not  intending  to  send 
us  one  by  any  other  channel." 

Their  life  was  of  the  simplest.  Since  his  trav- 
els the  Baronet  had  taken  to  sporting  and  farm- 
ing, while  Philippa  was  a  pattern  of  domesticity. 
Their  pleasures  were  all  local.  They  retired  eai'ly 
to  rest,  and  rose  with  the  cart-horses  and  whistling 
wagoners.  They  knew  the  names  of  every  bird 
and  tree  not  exceptionally  uncommon,  and  could 
foretell  the  weather  almost  as  well  as  anxious 
farmers  and  old  people  with  corns. 

One  day  Sir  Ashley  Mottisfont  received  a  let- 
ter, which  he  read  and  musingly  laid  down  on  the 
table  without  remark. 

"  What  is  it,  dearest  ?"  asked  his  wife,  glancing 
at  the  sheet. 

"  Oh,  it  is  from  an  old  lawyer  at  Bath  whom  I 
used  to  know.     He  reminds  me  of  something  I 


LADY    MOTflSFONT.  149 

said  to  him  four  or  five  years  ago — some  little  time 
before  we  were  married — about  Dorothy." 

"  What  about  her  ?" 

"  It  was  a  casual  remark  I  made  to  him,  when  I 
thought  you  might  not  take  kindly  to  her,  that  if 
he  knew  a  lady  who  was  anxious  to  adopt  a  child, 
and  could  insure  a  good  home  to  Dorothy,  he  was 
to  let  me  know." 

"But  that  was  when  you  had  nobody  to  take 
care  of  her,"  she  said,  quickly,  "  How  absurd  of 
him  to  write  now !  Does  he  know  you  are  mar- 
ried ?     He  must,  surely." 

"Oh  yes!" 

He  handed  her  the  letter.  The  solicitor  stated 
that  a  widow  lady  of  position,  who  did  not  at  pres- 
ent wish  her  name  to  be  disclosed,  had  lately  become 
a  client  of  his  while  taking  the  waters,  and  had  men- 
tioned to  him  that  she  would  like  a  little  girl  to 
bring  up  as  her  own,  if  she  could  be  certain  of 
finding  one  of  good  and  pleasing  disposition  ;  and, 
the  better  to  insure  this,  she  would  not  wish  the 
child  to  be  too  young  for  judging  her  qualities. 
He  had  remembered  Sir  Ashley's  observation  to 
him  a  long  while  ago,  and  therefore  brought  the 
matter  before  him.  It  would  be  an  excellent 
home  for  the  little  girl — of  that  he  was  positive 
— if  she  had  not  already  found  such  a  home. 

"But  it  is  absurd  of  the  man  to  write  so  loner 
after!"  said  Lady  Mottisfont,  with  a  lunipiness 
about  the  back  of  her  throat  as  she  thought  how 
much  Dorothy  had  become  to  her.     "  I  suppose  it 


150  A   GROUP   OP   NOBLE    DAMES. 

was  when  you  first — found  her — that  you  told  him 
this  ?" 

"  Exactly — it  was  then." 

He  fell  into  thought,  and  neither  Sir  Ashley  nor 
Lady  Mottisfont  took  the  trouble  to  answer  the 
lawyer's  letter  j  and  so  the  matter  ended  for  the 
time. 

One  day  at  dinner,  on  their  return  from  a  short 
absence  in  town,  whither  they  had  gone  to  see 
what  the  world  was  doing,  hear  what  it  was  say- 
ing, and  to  make  themselves  generally  fashionable 
after  rusticating  for  so  long — on  this  occasion,  I 
say,  they  learned  from  some  friend  who  had  joined 
them  at  dinner  that  Fernell  Hall — the  manorial 
house  of  the  estate  next  their  own,  which  had  been 
offered  on  lease  by  reason  of  the  impecuniosity  of 
its  owner — had  been  taken  for  a  term  by  a  widow 
lady,  an  Italian  contessa,  whose  name  I  will  not 
mention  for  certain  reasons  which  may  by-and-by 
appear.  Lady  Mottisfont  expressed  her  surprise 
and  interest  at  the  probability  of  having  such  a 
neighbor.  "Though,  if  I  had  been  born  in  Italy, 
I  think  I  should  have  liked  to  remain  there,"  she 
said. 

"She  is  not  Italian,  though  her  husband  was," 
said  Sir  Ashley. 

"  Oh,  you  have  heard  about  her  before  now?" 

"  Yes ;  they  were  talking  of  her  at  Grey's  the 
other  evening.  She  is  English."  And  then,  as 
her  husband  said  no  more  about  the  lady,  the 
friend   who   was    dining  with    them    told   Lady 


LADY   MOTTISFONT.  151 

Mottisfont  that  the  Countess's  father  had  specu- 
lated largely  in  East  India  stock,  in  which  im- 
mense fortunes  were  being  made  at  that  time ; 
through  this  his  daughter  had  found  herself  enor- 
mously wealthy  at  his  death,  which  had  occurred 
only  a  few  weeks  after  the  death  of  her  husband. 
It  was  supposed  that  the  marriage  of  an  enter- 
prising English  speculator's  daughter  to  a  poor 
foreign  nobleman  had  been  matter  of  arrange- 
ment merely.  As  soon  as  the  Countess's  widow- 
hood was  a  little  further  advanced  she  would,  no 
doubt,  be  the  mark  of  all  the  schemers  who  came 
near  her,  for  she  was  still  quite  young.  But  at 
present  she  seemed  to  desire  quiet,  and  avoided 
society  and  town. 

Some  weeks  after  this  time  Sir  Ashley  Mot- 
tisfont sat  looking  fixedly  at  his  lady  for  many 
moments.     He  said : 

"  It  might  have  been  better  for  Dorothy  if  the 
Countess  had  taken  her.  She  is  so  wealthy  in 
comparison  with  ourselves,  and  could  have  ush- 
ered the  girl  into  the  great  world  more  effectual- 
ly than  we  ever  shall  be  able  to  do." 

"The  Contessa  take  Dorothy  ?"  said  Lady  Mot- 
tisfont, with  a  start.  "  What — was  she  the  lady 
who  Avished  to  adopt  her  ?" 

"  Yes ;  she  was  staying  at  Bath  when  Lawyer 
Gayton  wrote  to  me." 

"  But  how  do  you  know  all  this,  Ashley  ?" 

He  showed  a  little  hesitation.  "  Oh,  I've  seen 
her,"   he  says.      "You  know,  she  drives  to  the 


152        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

meet  sometimes,  though  she  does  not  ride  ;  and 
she  has  informed  me  that  she  was  the  lady  who 
inquired  of  Gaytoh." 

"You  have  talked  to  her  as  well  as  seen  her, 
then  ?'' 

"  Oh  yes,  several  times  ;  everybody  has." 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?"  says  his  lady.  "  I 
had  quite  forgotten  to  call  upon  her.  I'll  go  to- 
morrow, or  soon,  .  .  .  But  I  can't  think,  Ashley, 
how  you  can  say  that  it  might  have  been  better 
for  Dorothy  to  have  gone  to  her ;  she  is  so  much 
our  own  now  that  I  cannot  admit  any  such  con- 
jectures as  those,  even  in  jest."  Her  eyes  re- 
proached him  so  eloquently  that  Sir  Ashley  Mot- 
tisfont  did  not  answer. 

Lady  Mottisfont  did  not  hunt  any  more  than 
the  Anglo-Italian  Countess  did ;  indeed,  she  had 
become  so  absorbed  in  household  matters  and  in 
Dorothy's  well  -  being  that  she  had  no  mind  to 
waste  a  minute  on  mere  enjoyments.  As  she  had 
said,  to  talk  coolly  of  what  might  have  been  the 
best  destination  in  days  past  for  a  child  to  whom 
they  had  become  so  attached  seemed  quite  bar- 
barous, and  she  could  not  understand  how  her 
husband  should  consider  the  point  so  abstracted- 
ly ;  for,  as  will  probably  have  been  guessed,  Lady 
Mottisfont  long  before  this  time,  if  she  had  not 
done  so  at  the  very  beginning,  divined  Sir  Ash- 
ley's true  relation  to  Dorothy.  But  the  Baronet's 
wife  was  so  discreetly  meek  and  mild  that  she 
never  told   him  of  her  surmise,  and  took  what 


LADY   MOTTISFONT.  153 

Heaven  had  sent  her  without  cavil,  her  generosi- 
ty in  this  respect  having  been  bountifully  re- 
warded by  the  new  life  she  found  in  her  love  for 
the  little  girl. 

Her  husband  recurred  to  the  same  uncomfort- 
able subject  when,  a  few  days  later,  they  were 
speaking  of  travelling  abroad.  He  said  that  it 
was  almost  a  pity,  if  they  thought  of  going,  that 
they  had  not  fallen  in  with  the  Countess's  wish. 
That  lady  had  told  him  that  she  had  met  Dorothy 
walking  with  her  nurse,  and  that  she  had  never 
seen  a  child  she  liked  so  well. 

"  What — she  covets  her  still  ?  How  imperti- 
nent of  the  woman  !"  said  Lady  Mottisfont. 

"  She  seems  to  do  so.  .  .  .  You  see,  dearest  Phi- 
lippa,  the  advantage  to  Dorothy  would  have  been 
that  the  Countess  would  have  adopted  her  legally, 
and  have  made  her  as  her  own  daughter ;  while 
we  have  not  done  that — we  are  only  bringing  up 
and  educating  a  poor  child  in  charity." 

"  But  I'll  adopt  her  fully — make  her  mine  le- 
gally !"  cried  his  wife,  in  an  anxious  voice.  "  How 
is  it  to  be  done?" 

"  H'm."  He  did  not  inform  her,  but  fell  into 
thought ;  and,  for  reasons  of  her  own,  his  lady 
was  restless  and  uneasy. 

The  very  next  day  Lady  Mottisfont  drove  to 
Fernell  Hall  to  pay  the  neglected  call  upon  her 
neighbor.  The  Countess  was  at  home,  and  re- 
ceived her  graciously.  But  poor  Lady  Mottis- 
font's  heart  died  within  her  as  soon  as  sue  set 


154  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

eyes  on  her  new  acquaintance.  Such  wonderful 
beauty,  of  the  fully-developed  kind,  had  never 
confronted  her  before  inside  the  lines  of  a  human 
face.  She  seemed  to  shine  with  every  light  and 
grace  that  woman  can  possess.  Her  finished  Con- 
tinental manners,  her  expanded  mind,  her  ready 
wit,  composed  a  study  that  made  the  other  poor 
lady  sick  ;  for  she,  and  latterly  Sir  Ashley  him- 
self, were  rather  rural  in  manners,  and  she  felt 
abashed  by  new  sounds  and  ideas  from  without. 
She  hardly  knew  three  words  in  any  language  but 
her  own,  while  this  divine  creature,  though  truly 
English,  had,  apparently,  whatever  she  wanted  in 
the  Italian  and  French  tongues  to  suit  every  im- 
pression ;  which  was  considered  a  great  improve- 
ment to  speech  in  those  days,  and,  indeed,  is  by 
many  considered  as  such  in  these. 

"  How  very  strange  it  was  about  the  little  girl!" 
the  Contessa  said  to  Lady  Mottisfont,  in  her  gay 
tones.  "  I  mean,  that  the  child  the  lawyer  recom- 
mended should,  just  before  then,  have  been  adopt- 
ed by  you,  who  are  now  my  neighbor.  How  is 
she  getting  on  ?     I  must  come  and  see  her." 

"  Do  you  still  want  her?"  asks  Lady  Mottisfont, 
suspiciously. 

"  Oh,  I  should  like  to  have  her !" 

"  But  you  can't !  She's  mine  !"  said  the  other, 
greedily. 

A  drooping  manner  appeared  in  the  Countess 
from  that  moment. 

Lady  Mottisfont,  too,  was  in  a  wretched  mood 


LADY   MOTTISFONT.  155 

all  the  way  home  that  day.  The  Countess  was 
so  charming  in  every  way  that  she  had  charmed 
her  gentle  ladyship;  how  should  it  be  possible 
that  she  had  failed  to  charm  Sir  Ashley?  More- 
over, she  had  awakened  a  strange  thought  in  Phi- 
lippa's  mind.  As  soon  as  she  reached  home  she 
rushed  to  the  nursery,  and  there,  seizing  Dorothy, 
frantically  kissed  her ;  then,  holding  her  at  arm's- 
length,  she  gazed  with  a  piercing  inquisitiveness 
into  the  girl's  lineaments.  She  sighed  deeply, 
abandoned  the  wondering  Dorothy,  and  hastened 
away. 

She  had  seen  there  not  only  her  husband's  traits, 
which  she  had  often  beheld  before,  but  others,  of 
the  shade,  shape,  and  expression  which  character- 
ized those  of  her  new  neighbor. 

Then  this  poor  lady  perceived  the  whole  per- 
turbing sequence  of  things,  and  asked  herself  how 
she  could  have  been  such  a  walking  piece  of  sim- 
plicity as  not  to  have  thought  of  this  before.  But 
she  did  not  stay  long  upbraiding  herself  for  her 
short-sightedness,  so  overwhelmed  was  she  with 
misery  at  the  spectacle  of  herself  as  an  intruder 
between  these.  To  be  sure  she  could  not  have 
foreseen  such  a  conjuncture ;  but  that  did  not  less- 
en her  grief.  The  woman  who  had  been  both 
her  husband's  bliss  and  his  backsliding  had  reap- 
peared free  when  he  was  no  longer  so,  and  she 
evidently  was  dying  to  claim  her  own  in  the  per- 
son of  Dorothy,  who  had  meanwhile  grown  to  be, 
to  Lady  Mottisfont,  almost  the  only  source  of  each 


166  A   GROUP   OP   NOBLE   DAMES. 

day's  happiness,  supplying  her  with  something  to 
watch  over,  inspiring  her  with  the  sense  of  ma- 
ternity, and  so  largely  reflecting  her  husband's 
nature  as  almost  to  deceive  her  into  the  pleasant 
belief  that  she  reflected  her  own  also. 

If  there  was  a  single  direction  in  which  this  de- 
voted and  virtuous  lady  erred,  it  was  in  the  di- 
rection of  over-submissiveness.  When  all  is  said 
and  done,  and  the  truth  told,  men  seldom  show 
much  self-sacrifice  in  their  conduct  as  lords  and 
masters  to  helpless  women  bound  to  them  for  life, 
and  perhaps  (though  I  say  it  with  all  uncertainty) 
if  she  had  blazed  up  in  his  face  like  a  furze-fag- 
ot, directly  he  came  home,  she  might  have  helped 
herself  a  little.  But  God  knows  whether  this  is 
a  true  supposition ;  at  any  rate,  she  did  no  such 
thing;  and  waited  and  prayed  that  she  might 
never  do  despite  to  him  who,  she  was  bound  to 
admit,  had  always  been  tender  and  courteous  tow- 
ards her;  and  hoped  that  little  Dorothy  might 
never  be  taken  away. 

By  degrees  the  two  households  became  friend- 
ly, and  very  seldom  did  a  week  pass  without  their 
seeing  something  of  each  other.  Try  as  she  might, 
and  dangerous  as  she  assumed  the  acquaintance- 
ship to  be.  Lady  Mottisfont  could  detect  no  fault 
or  flaw  in  her  new  friend.  It  was  obvious  that 
Dorothy  had  been  the  magnet  which  had  drawn 
the  Contessa  hither,  and  not  Sir  Ashley.  Such 
beauty,  united  with  such  understanding  and  bright- 
ness, Philippa  had  never  before  known  in  one  of 


LADY   MOTTISFONT.  15  V 

her  own  sex,  and  she  tried  to  think  (whether  she 
succeeded  I  do  not  know)  that  she  did  not  mind 
the  propinquity  ;  since  a  woman  so  rich,  so  fair, 
and  with  such  a  command  of  suitors,  could  not  de- 
sire to  wreck  the  happiness  of  so  inoffensive  a  per- 
son as  herself. 

The  season  drew  on  when  it  was  the  custom  for 
families  of  distinction  to  go  off  to  The  Bath,  and 
Sir  Ashley  Mottisfont  persuaded  his  wife  to  ac- 
company him  thither  with  Dorothy.  Everybody 
of  any  note  Avas  there  this  year.  From  their  own 
part  of  England  came  many  that  they  kncAV ; 
among  the  rest,  Lord  and  Lady  Purbeck,  the  Earl 
and  Countess  of  Wessex,  Sir  John  Grebe,  the 
Drenkhards,  Lady  Stourvale,  the  old  Duke  of 
Hamptonshire,  the  Bishop  of  IVIelchester,  the  Dean 
of  Exonbury,  and  other  lesser  lights  of  Court,  pul- 
pit, and  field.  Thither  also  came  the  fair  Contessa, 
whom,  as  soon  as  Philippa  saw  how  much  she  was 
sought  after  by  younger  men,  she  could  not  con- 
scientiously suspect  of  renewed  designs  upon  Sir 
Ashley. 

But  the  Countess  had  finer  opportunities  than 
ever  with  Dorothy  ;  for  Lady  Mottisi'unt  was  of- 
ten indisposed,  and  even  at  other  times  could  not 
honestly  hinder  an  intercourse  which  gave  bright 
ideas  to  the  child,  Dorothy  welcomed  her  new 
acquaintance  with  a  strange  and  instinctive  readi- 
ness that  intimated  the  wonderful  subtlety  of  the 
threads  which  bind  flesh  and  flesh  together. 

At  last  the  crisis  came  :  it  was  precipitated  by 


158        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

an  accident.  Dorothy  and  her  nurse  had  gone 
out  one  day  for  an  airing,  leaving  Lady  Mottis- 
font  alone  in-doors.  While  she  sat  gloomily  think- 
ing that  in  all  likelihood  the  Countess  would  con- 
trive to  meet  the  child  somewhere,  and  exchange 
a  few  tender  words  with  her.  Sir  Ashley  Mottis- 
font  rushed  in  and  informed  her  that  Dorothy 
had  just  had  the  narrowest  possible  escape  from 
death.  Some  workmen  were  undermining  a  house 
to  pull  it  down  for  rebuilding,  when,  without 
warning,  the  front  wall  inclined  slowly  outward 
for  its  fall,  the  nurse  and  child  passing  beneath  it 
at  the  same  moment.  The  fall  was  temporarily 
arrested  by  the  scaffolding,  while  in  the  mean 
time  the  Countess  had  witnessed  their  imminent 
danger  from  the  other  side  of  the  street.  Spring- 
ing across,  she  snatched  Dorothy  from  under  the 
wall,  and  pulled  the  nurse  after  her,  the  middle  of 
the  way  being  barely  reached  before  they  were 
enveloped  in  the  dense  dust  of  the  descending 
mass,  though  not  a  stone  touched  them. 

"Where  is  Dorothy?"  says  the  excited  Lady 
Mottisfont. 

"  She  has  her — she  won't  let  her  go  for  a  time — " 

"  Has  her?  But  she's  mine — she's  mine !"  cries 
Lady  Mottisfont. 

Then  her  quick  and  tender  eyes  perceived  that 
her  husband  had  almost  forgotten  her  intrusive 
existence  in  contemplating  the  oneness  of  Doro- 
thy's, the  Countess's,  and  his  own ;  he  was  in  a 
dream  of  exaltation  which  recognized  nothing 


LADY    MOTTISFONT.  159 

necessary  to  his  well-being  outside  that  welded 
circle  of  three  lives. 

Dorothy  was  at  length  brought  home  ;  she  was 
much  fascinated  by  the  Countess,  and  saw  noth- 
ing tragic,  but  rather  all  that  was  truly  delight- 
ful, in  what  had  happened.  In  the  evening,  when 
the  excitement  was  over,  and  Dorothy  was  put  to 
bed,  Sir  Ashley  said,  "  She  has  saved  Dorothy ; 
and  I  have  been  asking  myself  what  I  can  do  for 
her  as  a  slight  acknowledgment  of  her  heroism. 
Surely  we  ought  to  let  her  have  Dorothy  to  bring 
up,  since  she  still  desires  to  do  it?  It  would  be 
so  much  to  Dorothy's  advantage.  We  ought  to 
look  at  it  in  that  light,  and  not  selfishly." 

Philippa  seized  his  hand.  "Ashley,  Ashley! 
You  don't  mean  it — that  I  must  lose  ray  pretty 
darling — the  only  one  I  have?"  She  met  his  gaze 
with  her  piteous  mouth  and  wet  eyes  so  painfully 
strained  that  he  turned  away  his  face. 

The  next  morning,  before  Dorothy  was  awake, 
Lady  Mottisfont  stole  to  the  girl's  bedside  and 
sat  regarding  her.  When  Dorothy  opened  her 
eyes,  she  fixed  them  for  a  long  time  upon  Philip- 
pa's  features. 

"Mamma,  you  are  not  so  pretty  as  the  Con- 
tesse,  are  you  ?"  she  said,  at  length. 

"I  am  not, Dorothy." 

"  Why  are  you  not,  mamma  ?" 

"  Dorothy,  where  would  you  rather  live,  always 
— with  me  or  with  her?" 

The  little  girl  looked  troubled.     "I  am  sorry, 


160        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMKS. 

mamma  ;  I  don't  mean  to  be  unkind  ;  but  I  would 
rather  live  with  her — I  mean,  if  I  might  without 
trouble,  and  you  did  not  mind,  and  it  could  be  just 
the  same  to  us  all,  you  know." 

"  Has  she  ever  asked  you  the  same  question  ?" 

"  Never,  mamma." 

There  lay  the  sting  of  it :  the  Countess  seemed 
the  soul  of  honor  and  fairness  in  this  matter,  test 
her  as  she  might.  That  afternoon  Lady  Mottis- 
font  went  to  her  husband  with  singular  firmness 
upon  her  gentle  face. 

"Ashley,  we  have  been  married  nearly  five 
years,  and  I  have  never  challenged  you  with 
what  I  know  perfectly  well — the  parentage  of 
Dorothy." 

"  Never  have  you,  Philippa  dear ;  though  I  have 
seen  that  you  knew  from  the  first." 

"  From  the  first  as  to  her  father,  not  as  to  her 
mother.  Her  I  did  not  know  for  some  time  ;  but 
I  know  now." 

"Ah,  you  have  discovered  that,  too?"  says  he, 
without  much  surprise. 

"  Could  I  help  it?  Very  well ;  that  being  so,  I 
have  thought  it  over,  and  I  have  spoken  to  Doro- 
thy. I  agree  to  her  going.  I  can  do  no  less  than 
grant  to  the  Countess  her  wish,  after  her  kind- 
ness to  ray — your — her — child." 

Then  this  self-sacrificing  woman  went  hastily 
away  that  he  might  not  see  that  her  heart  was 
bursting;  and  thereupon,  before  they  left  the 
city,  Dorothy  changed  her  mother  and  her  home. 


LADY   MOTTISFONT.  161 

After  this,  the  Countess  went  away  to  London  for 
a  while,  taking  Dorothy  with  her  ;  and  the  Bar- 
onet and  his  wife  returned  to  their  lonely  place 
at  Deansleigh  Park  without  her. 

To  renounce  Dorothy  in  the  bustle  of  Bath  was 
a  different  thing  from  living  without  her  in  this 
quiet  home.  One  evening  Sir  Ashley  missed  his 
wife  from  the  supper-table  ;  her  manner  had  been 
80  pensive  and  woful  of  late  that  he  immediate- 
ly became  alarmed.  He  said  nothing,  but  looked 
about  outside  the  house  narrowly,  and  discerned 
her  form  in  the  park,  where  recently  she  had  been 
accustomed  to  walk  alone.  In  its  lower  levels 
there  was  a  pool  fed  by  a  trickling  brook,  and  he 
reached  this  spot  in  time  to  hear  a  splash.  Run- 
ning forward,  he  dimly  perceived  her  light  gown 
floating  in  the  water.  To  pull  her  out  was  the 
work  of  a  few  instants,  and  bearing  her  in-doors  to 
her  room,  he  undressed  her,  nobody  in  the  house 
knowing  of  the  incident  but  himself.  She  had 
not  been  immersed  long  enough  to  lose  her  senses, 
and  soon  recovered.  She  owned  that  she  had  done 
it  because  the  Contessa  had  taken  away  her  child, 
as  she  persisted  in  calling  Dorothy.  Iler  husband 
spoke  sternly  to  her,  and  impressed  upon  her  the 
weakness  of  giving  way  thus,  when  all  that  had 
happened  was  for  the  best.  She  took  his  reproof 
meekly,  and  admitted  her  fault. 

After  that  she  became  more  resigned,  but  he 
often  caught  her  in  tears  over  some  doll,  shoe,  or 
ribbon  of  Dorothy's,  and  decided  to  take  her  to 


162  A    GEOUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

the  North  of  England  for  change  of  air  and  scene. 
This  was  not  without  its  beneficial  effect,  cor- 
poreally no  less  than  mentally,  as  later  events 
showed,  but  she  still  evinced  a  preternatural 
sharpness  of  ear  at  the  most  casual  mention  of 
the  child.  When  they  reached  home,  the  Count- 
ess and  Dorothy  were  still  absent  from  the  neigh- 
boring Fernell  Hall,  but  in  a  month  or  two  they 
returned,  and  a  little  later  Sir  Ashley  Mottisfont 
came  into  his  wife's  room  full  of  news. 

"Well,  would  you  think  it,  Philippa?  After 
being  so  desperate,  too,  about  getting  Dorothy  to 
be  with  her!" 

"Ah— what?" 

"Our  neighbor,  the  Countess,  is  going  to  be 
married  again !  It  is  to  somebody  she  has  met 
in  London." 

Lady  Mottisfont  was  much  surprised ;  she  had 
never  dreamed  of  such  an  event.  The  conflict  for 
the  possession  of  Dorothy's  person  had  obscured 
the  possibility  of  it ;  yet  what  more  likely,  the 
Countess  being  still  under  thirty,  and  so  good- 
looking? 

"  What  is  of  still  more  interest  to  us,  or  to  you, 
continued  her  husband,  "  is  a  kind  offer  she  has 
made.     She  is  willing  that  you  should  have  Doro- 
thy back  again.     Seeing  what  a  grief  the  loss  of 
her  has  been  to  you,  she  will  try  to  do  without  her." 

"  It  is  not  for  that ;  it  is  not  to  oblige  me,"  said 
Lady  Mottisfont,  quickly.  "One  can  see  well 
enough  what  it  is  for!" 


LADY    MOTTISFONT.  163 

"  Well,  never  mind  ;  beggars  mustn't  be  choos- 
ers. The  reason  or  motive  is  nothing  to  us,  so 
that  you  obtain  your  desire." 

"I  am  not  a  beggar  any  longer,"  said  Lady 
Mottisfont,  with  proud  mystery. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

Lady  Mottisfont  hesitated.  However,  it  was 
only  too  plain  that  she  did  not  now  jump  at  a 
restitution  of  one  for  whom  some  months  before 
she  had  been  breaking  her  heart. 

The  explanation  of  this  change  of  mood  be- 
came apparent  some  little  time  further  on.  Lady 
Mottisfont,  after  five  years  of  wedded  life,  was 
expecting  to  become  a  mother,  and  the  aspect  of 
many  things  was  greatly  altered  in  her  view. 
Among  the  more  important  changes  was  that  of 
no  longer  feeling  Dorothy  to  be  absolutely  indis- 
pensable to  her  existence. 

Meanwhile,  in  view  of  her  coming  marriage, 
the  Countess  decided  to  abandon  tbe  remainder 
of  her  term  at  Fernell  Hall,  and  return  to  her 
pretty  little  house  in  town.  But  she  could  not 
do  this  quite  so  quickly  as  she  had  expected,  and 
half  a  year  or  more  elapsed  before  she  finally  quit- 
ted the  neighborhood,  the  interval  being  passed 
in  alternations  between  the  country  and  London. 
Prior  to  her  last  departure  she  had  an  interview 
with  Sir  Ashley  Mottisfont,  and  it  occurred  three 
days  after  his  wife  had  presented  him  with  a  son 
and  heir. 

"  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you,"  said  the  Countess, 


164        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

looking  him  luminously  in  the  face,  "about  the 
dear  foundling  I  have  adopted  temporarily,  and 
thought  to  have  adopted  permanently.  But  my 
marriage  makes  it  too  risky." 

"  I  thought  it  might  be  that,"  he  answered,  re- 
garding her  steadfastly  back  again,  and  observing 
two  tears  come  slowly  into  her  eyes  as  she  heard 
her  own  voice  describe  Dorothy  in  those  words. 

"  Don't  criticise  me,"  she  said,  hastily ;  and  re- 
covering herself,  went  on.  "  If  Lady  Mottisfont 
could  take  her  back  again,  as  I  suggested,  it  would 
be  better  for  me,  and  certainly  no  worse  for  Doro- 
thy. To  every  one  but  ourselves  she  is  but  a 
child  I  have  taken  a  fancy  to,  and  Lady  Mottis- 
font coveted  her  so  much,  and  was  very  reluctant 
to  let  her  go.  ...  I  am  sure  she  will  adopt  her 
again?"  she  added, anxiously. 

"I  will  sound  her  afresh,"  said  the  Baronet. 
"You  leave  Dorothy  behind  for  the  present?" 

"  Yes  ;  although  I  go  away,  I  do  not  give  up 
the  house  for  another  month." 

He  did  not  speak  to  his  wife  about  the  proposal 
till  some  few  days  after,  when  Lady  Mottisfont 
had  nearly  recovered,  and  news  of  the  Countess's 
marriage  in  London  had  just  reached  them.  He 
had  no  sooner  mentioned  Dorothy's  name  than 
Lady  Mottisfont  showed  symptoms  of  disquie- 
tude. 

"I  have  not  acquired  any  dislike  of  Dorothy," 
she  said,  "  but  I  feel  that  there  is  one  nearer  to 
me  now.     Dorothy  chose  the  alternative  of  going 


LADY    MOTTISFONT.  165 

to  the  Countess,  you  must  remember,  when  I  put 
it  to  her  as  between  the  Countess  and  myself." 

"But,  my  dear  Philippa,  how  can  you  argue 
thus  about  a  child,  and  that  child  our  Dorothy  ?" 

"  Not  ours,''''  said  his  wife,  pointing  to  the  cot. 
"  Ours  is  here." 

"  What,  then,  Philippa,"  he  said,  surprised, 
"  you  won't  have  her  back,  after  nearly  dying  of 
grief  at  the  loss  of  her?" 

"  I  cannot  argue,  dear  Ashley.  I  should  prefer 
not  to  have  the  responsibility  of  Dorothy  again. 
Iler  place  is  filled  now." 

Her  husband  sighed,  and  went  out  of  the  cham- 
ber. There  had  been  a  previous  arrangement  that 
Dorothy  should  be  brought  to  the  house  on  a  vis- 
it that  day,  but  instead  of  taking  her  up  to  his 
wife,  he  did  not  inform  Lady  Mottisfont  of  the 
child's  presence.  lie  entertained  her  himself  as 
well  as  he  could,  and  accompanied  her  into  the 
park,  where  they  had  a  ramble  together.  Pres- 
ently he  sat  down  on  the  root  of  an  elm  and  took 
her  upon  his  knee. 

"Between  this  husband  and  this  baby,  little 
Dorothy,  you  who  had  two  homes  are  left  out  in 
the  cold,"  he  said. 

"  Can't  I  go  to  London  with  my  pretty  mam- 
ma?" said  Dorothy,  perceiving  from  his  manner 
that  there  was  a  liitch  somewhere. 

"  I  am  afraid  not,  my  child.     She  only  took 

you  to  live  with  her  because  she  was  lonely,  you 

know." 
11 


166        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLB  DAMES. 

"Then  can't  I  stay  at  Deansleigh  Park  with 
my  other  mamma  and  you?" 

"  I  am  afraid  that  cannot  be  done  either,"  said 
he,  sadly.  "  We  have  a  baby  in  the  house  now." 
He  closed  the  reply  by  stooping  down  and  kissing 
her,  there  being  a  tear  in  his  eye. 

"  Then  nobody  wants  me !"  said  Dorothy,  pa- 
thetically. 

"  Oh  yes,  somebody  wants  you,"  he  assured  her. 
"Where  would  you  like  to  live  besides?" 

Dorothy's  experiences  being  rather  limited,  she 
mentioned  the  only  other  place  in  the  world  that 
she  was  acquainted  with — the  cottage  of  the  vil- 
lager who  had  taken  care  of  her  before  Lady 
Mottisfont  had  removed  her  to  the  Manor-house. 

"  Yes  ;  that's  where  you'll  be  best  off  and  most 
independent,"  he  answered.  "And  I'll  come  to 
see  you,  my  dear  girl,  and  bring  you  pretty 
things ;  and  perhaps  you'll  be  just  as  happy 
there." 

Nevertheless,  when  the  change  came,  and  Doro- 
thy was  handed  over  to  the  kind  cottage-woman, 
the  poor  child  missed  the  luxurious  roominess  of 
Fernell  Hall  and  Deansleigh ;  and  for  a  long  time 
her  little  feet,  which  had  been  accustomed  to  car- 
pets and  oak  floors,  suffered  from  the  cold  of  the 
stone  flags  on  which  it  was  now  her  lot  to  live 
and  to  play ;  while  chilblains  came  upon  her  fin- 
gers with  washing  at  the  pump.  But  thicker 
shoes  with  nails  in  them  somewhat  remedied  the 
cold  feet,  and  her  complaints  and  tears  on  this 


LADY    MOTTISFONT,  167 

and  other  scores  diminished  to  silence  as  she  be- 
came inured  anew  to  the  hardships  of  the  farm- 
cottage,  and  she  grew  up  robust  if  not  handsome. 
She  was  never  altogether  lost  sight  of  by  Sir  Ash- 
ley, though  she  was  deprived  of  the  systematic 
education  which  had  been  devised  and  begun  for 
her  by  Lady  Mottisfont,  as  well  as  by  her  other 
mamma,  the  enthusiastic  Countess.  The  latter 
soon  had  other  Dorothys  to  think  of,  who  occu- 
pied her  time  and  affection  as  fully  as  Lady  Mot- 
tisfont's  were  occupied  by  her  precious  boy.  In 
the  course  of  time  the  donbly-desired  and  doubly- 
rejected  Dorothy  married,  I  believe,  a  respectable 
road-contractor — the  same,  if  I  mistake  not,  who 
repaired  and  improved  the  old  highway  running 
from  Wintoncester  south-westerly  through  the 
NcAV  Forest — and  in  the  heart  of  this  worthy  man 
of  business  the  poor  girl  found  the  nest  which 
had  been  denied  her  by  her  own  flesh  and  blood 
of  higher  degree. 


Several  of  the  listeners  wished  to  hear  another 
story  from  the  sentimental  member  after  this,  but 
he  said  that  he  could  recall  nothing  else  at  the 
moment,  and  that  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  his  friend 
on  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace  had  something 
to  say  from  the  look  of  his  face. 

The  member  alluded  to  was  a  respectable 
church-warden,  with  a  sly  chink  to  one  eyelid — 
possibly  the  result  of  an  accident — and  a  regular 


168  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

attendant  at  the  Club  meetings.  He  replied  that 
his  looks  had  been  mainly  caused  by  his  interest 
in  the  two  ladies  of  the  last  story,  apparently 
women  of  strong  motherly  instincts,  even  though 
they  were  not  genuinely  stanch  in  their  tender- 
ness. The  tale  had  brought  to  his  mind  an  in- 
stance of  a  firmer  affection  of  that  sort  on  the 
paternal  side,  in  a  nature  otherwise  culpable.  As 
for  telling  the  story,  his  manner  was  much  against 
him,  he  feared  ;  but  he  would  do  his  best,  if  they 
wished. 

Here  the  president  interposed  with  a  suggest- 
ion that  as  it  was  getting  late  in  the  afternoon  it 
would  be  as  well  to  adjourn  to  their  respective 
inns  and  lodgings  for  dinner,  after  which  those 
who  cared  to  do  so  could  return  and  resume  these 
curious  domestic  traditions  for  the  remainder  of 
the  evening,  which  might  otherwise  prove  irk- 
some enough.  The  curator  had  told  him  that  the 
room  was  at  their  service.  The  church- warden, 
who  was  beginning  to  feel  hungry  himself,  read- 
ily acquiesced,  and  the  Club  separated  for  an  hour 
and  a  half.  Then  the  faithful  ones  began  to  drop 
in  again — among  whom  were  not  the  president ; 
neither  came  the  rural  dean,  nor  the  two  curates, 
though  the  colonel,  and  the  man  of  family,  cigars 
in  mouth,  were  good  enough  to  return,  having 
found  their  hotel  dreary.  The  museum  had  no 
regular  means  of  illumination,  and  a  solitary  can- 
dle, less  powerful  than  the  rays  of  the  fire,  was 
placed  on  the  table  ;  also  bottles  and  glasses,  pro- 


LADY    MOTTISFONT.  169 

vided  by  some  thoughtful  member.  The  chink- 
eyed  church-warden,  now  thorouglily  primed,  pro- 
ceeded to  relate,  in  his  own  terms,  what  was  in 
substance  as  follows,  while  many  of  his  listeners 
smoked. 


part  flir, 

AFTER   DINNER. 


\ 


DAME    THE    FIFTH. 

Ube  Xa^B  Hcenwa^?. 

BY  THE  CHUKCH-WARDEN. 

In  the  reign  of  His  Most  Excellent  Majesty 
King  George  the  Third,  Defender  of  the  Faith 
and  of  the  American  Colonies,  there  lived  in  "a 
faire  maner-place  "  (so  Leland  called  it  in  his  day, 
as  I  have  been  told),  in  one  o'  the  greenest  bits  of 
woodland  between  Bristol  and  the  city  of  Exon- 
bury,  a  young  lady  who  resembled  some  aforesaid 
ones  in  having  many  talents  and  exceeding  great 
beauty.  With  these  gifts  she  combined  a  some- 
what imperious  temper  and  arbitrary  mind,  though 
her  experience  of  the  world  was  not  actually  so 
large  as  her  conclusive  manner  would  have  led 
the  stranger  to  suppose.  Being  an  orphan,  she 
resided  with  her  uncle,  who,  though  he  was  fairly 
considerate  as  to  her  welfare,  left  her  pretty  much 
to  herself. 

Now,  it  chanced  that  when  this  lovely  young  lady 
was  about  nineteen,  she  (being  a  fearless  horse- 
woman) was  riding,  with  only  a  young  lad  as  an 


174        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMBS. 

attendant,  in  one  o'  the  woods  near  her  uncle's 
house,  and,  in  trotting  along,  her  horse  stumbled 
over  the  root  of  a  felled  tree.  She  slipped  to  the 
gi'ound,  not  seriously  hurt,  and  was  assisted  home 
by  a  gentleman  who  came  in  view  at  the  moment 
of  her  mishap.  It  turned  out  that  this  gentleman, 
a  total  stranger  to  her,  was  on  a  visit  at  the  house 
of  a  neighboring  land- owner.  He  was  of  Dutch 
extraction,  and  occasionally  came  to  England  on 
business  or  pleasure  from  his  plantations  in  Glii- 
ana,  on  the  north  coast  of  South  America,  where 
he  usually  resided. 

On  this  account  he  was  naturally  but  little 
known  in  Wessex,  and  was  but  a  slight  acquaint- 
ance of  the  gentleman  at  whose  mansion  he  was 
a  guest.  However,  the  friendship  between  him 
and  the  Heymeres — as  the  uncle  and  niece  were 
named  —  warmed  and  warmed  by  degrees,  there 
being  but  few  folk  o'  note  in  the  vicinit}^  at  that 
time,  which  made  a  new-comer,  if  he  were  at  all 
sociable  and  of  good  credit,  always  sure  of  a  wel- 
come. A  tender  feeling  (as  it  is  called  by  the 
romantic)  sprang  up  between  the  two  young  peo- 
ple, which  ripened  into  intimacy.  Anderling,  the 
foreign  gentleman,  was  of  an  amorous  tempera- 
ment, and,  though  he  endeavored  to  conceal  his 
feeling,  it  could  be  seen  that  Miss  Maria  Heymere 
had  impressed  him  rather  more  deeply  than  would 
be  represented  by  a  scratch  upon  a  stone.  He 
seemed  absolutely  unable  to  free  himself  from 
her  fascination ;  and  his  inability  to  do  so,  much 


THE    LADT    ICENWAY.  175 

as  hel^Kd — evidently  thinking  he  had  not  the 
ghost  0^1  chance  with  her — gave  her  the  pleas- 
ure of  power  ;  though  she  more  than  sympathized 
when  she  overheard  him  heaving  his  deep-drawn 
sighs — privately  to  himself,  as  he  supposed. 

After  prolonging  his  visit  by  every  conceivable 
excuse  in  his  power,  he  summoned  courage,  and 
offered  her  his  hand  and  his  heart.  Being  in  no 
way  disinclined  to  him,  though  not  so  fervid  as 
he,  and  her  uncle  making  no  objection  to  the 
match,  she  consented  to  share  his  fate,  for  better 
or  otherwise,  in  the  distant  colony  where,  as  he 
assured  her,  his  rice  and  coffee  and  maize  and  tim- 
ber produced  him  ample  means  —  a  statement 
which  was  borne  out  by  his  friend,  her  uncle's 
neighbor.  In  short,  a  day  for  their  marriage  was 
fixed,  earlier  in  the  engagement  than  is  usual  or 
desirable  between  comparative  strangers,  by  rea- 
son of  the  necessity  he  was  under  of  returning  to 
look  after  his  properties. 

The  wedding  took  place,  and  Maria  left  her  un- 
cle's mansion  with  her  husband,  going  in  the  first 
place  to  London,  and  about  a  fortnight  after  sail- 
ing with  him  across  the  great  ocean  for  their  dis- 
tant home — which,  however,  he  assured  her  should 
not  be  her  home  for  long,  it  being  his  intention 
to  dispose  of  his  interests  in  this  part  of  the  world 
as  soon  as  the  war  was  over  and  he  could  do  so 
advantageously,  when  they  could  come  to  Europe, 
and  reside  in  some  favorite  capital. 

As  they  advanced  on  the  voyage  she  observed 


IVC  A   GKOUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

that  he  grew  more  and  more  constrained;  and  by 
the  time  they  had  crossed  the  line  he  was  quite 
depressed,  just  as  he  had  been  before  proposing 
to  lier.  A  day  or  two  before  landing  at  Para- 
maribo he  embraced  her  in  a  very  tearful  and 
passionate  manner,  and  said  be  wished  to  make  a 
confession.  It  had  been  his  misfortune,  he  said, 
to  marry  at  Quebec  in  early  life  a  woman  whose 
reputation  proved  to  be  in  every  way  bad  and 
scandalous.  The  discovery  had  nearly  killed 
him ;  but  he  had  ultimately  separated  from  her, 
and  had  never  seen  her  since.  He  had  hoped 
and  prayed  she  might  be  dead,  but  recently  in 
London,  when  they  were  starting  on  this  journey, 
he  had  discovered  that  she  was  still  alive.  At 
first  he  had  decided  to  keep  this  dark  intelligence 
from  her  beloved  ears,  but  he  had  felt  that  he 
could  not  do  it.  All  he  hoped  was  that  such  a 
condition  of  things  would  make  no  difiference  in 
her  feelings  for  him,  as  it  need  make  no  difference 
in  the  coui'se  of  their  lives. 

Thereupon  the  spirit  of  this  proud  and  master- 
ful lady  showed  itself  in  violent  turmoil,  like  the 
raginof  of  a  nor'-west  thunder-storm — as  well  it 
might,  God  knows.  But  she  was  of  too  stout  a 
nature  to  be  broken  down  by  his  revelation,  as 
many  ladies  of  my  acquaintance  would  have  been 
— so  far  from  home  and  right  under  the  line  in 
the  blaze  o'  the  sun.  Of  the  two,  indeed,  he  was 
the  more  wretched  and  shattered  in  spirit,  for  he 
loved  her  deeply,  and  (there  being  a  foreign  twist 


THE    LADY    ICENWAY.  Ill 

in  his  make)  had  been  tempted  to  this  crime  by 
her  exceeding  beauty,  against  which  he  had  strug- 
gled day  and  night,  till  he  had  no  further  resist- 
ance left  in  him.  It  was  she  who  came  first  to  a 
decision  as  to  what  should  be  done — whether  a 
wise  one  I  do  not  attempt  to  judge. 

"  I  put  it  to  you,"  says  she,  when  many  useless 
self-reproaches  and  protestations  on  his  part  had 
been  uttered — "  I  put  it  to  you  whether,  if  any 
manliness  is  left  in  you,  you  ought  not  to  do  ex- 
actly what  I  consider  the  best  thing  for  me  in 
this  strait  to  which  you  have  reduced  me  ?" 

He  promised  to  do  anything  in  the  whole  world. 
She  then  requested  him  to  allow  her  to  return  and 
announce  hira  as  having  died  of  malignant  ague 
immediately  on  their  arrival  at  Paramaribo;  that 
she  should  consequently  appear  in  weeds  as  his 
widow  in  her  native  place ;  and  that  he  would 
never  molest  her,  or  come  again  to  that  part  of 
the  world  during  the  whole  course  of  his  life — a 
good  reason  for  which  would  be  that  the  legal 
consequences  might  be  serious. 

He  readily  acquiesced  in  this,  as  he  would  have 
acquiesced  in  anything  for  the  restitution  of  one 
he  adored  so  deeply — even  to  the  yielding  of  life 
itself.  To  put  her  in  an  immediate  state  of  inde- 
pcndonee  he  gave  her,  in  bonds  and  jewels,  a  con- 
siderable sum  (for  his  worldly  means  had  been  in 
no  way  exaggerated),  and  by  the  next  ship  she 
sailed  again  for  England,  having  travelled  no  far- 
ther than  to  Paramaribo,  At  parting  he  declared 
12 


178  A   GROUP   OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

it  to  be  his  intention  to  turn  all  his  landed  posses- 
sions into  personal  property,  and  to  be  a  wanderer 
on  the  face  of  the  earth  in  remorse  for  his  con- 
duct towards  her. 

Maria  duly  arrived  in  England,  and  immedi- 
ately on  landing  apprised  her  uncle  of  her  return, 
duly  appearing  at  his  house  in  the  garb  of  a  wid- 
ow. She  was  commiserated  by  all  the  neighbors 
as  soon  as  her  story  was  told ;  but  only  to  her 
uncle  did  she  reveal  the  real  state  of  affairs  and 
her  reason  for  concealing  it.  For,  though  she 
had  been  innocent  of  wrong,  Maria's  pride  was  of 
that  grain  which  could  not  brook  the  least  appear- 
ance of  having  been  fooled  or  deluded  or  non- 
plussed in  her  worldly  aims. 

For  some  time  she  led  a  quiet  life  with  her  rel- 
ative, and  in  due  course  a  son  was  born  to  her. 
She  was  much  respected  for  her  dignity  and  re- 
serve, and  the  portable  wealth  which  her  tempo- 
rary husband  had  made  over  to  her  enabled  her 
to  live  in  comfort  in  a  wing  of  the  mansion,  with- 
out assistance  from  her  uncle  at  all.  But,  know- 
ing that  she  was  not  what  she  seemed  to  be,  her 
life  was  an  uneasy  one,  and  she  often  said  to  her- 
self: "Suppose  his  continued  existence  should 
become  known  here,  and  people  should  discern 
the  pride  of  my  motive  in  hiding  my  humiliation  ? 
It  would  be  worse  than  if  I  had  been  frank  at 
first,  which  I  should  have  been  but  for  the  credit 
of  this  child." 

Such  grave  reflections  as  these  occupied  her 


THE    LADY    ICENWAY.  lV9 

with  increasing  force ;  and  during  their  continu- 
ance she  encountered  a  worthy  man  of  noble  birth 
and  title — Lord  Icenway  his  name — whose  seat 
was  beyond  Wintonccster,  quite  at  t'other  end  of 
Wessex.  He  being  anxious  to  pay  his  addresses 
to  her,  Maria  willingly  accepted  them,  though  he 
was  a  plain  man,  older  than  herself,  for  she  dis- 
cerned in  a  remarriage  a  method  of  fortifying 
her  position  against  mortifying  discoveries.  In 
a  few  months  their  union  took  place,  and  Maria 
lifted  her  head  as  Lady  Icenway,  and  left  with 
her  husband  and  child  for  his  home  as  aforesaid, 
where  she  was  quite  unknown. 

A  justification,  or  a  condemnation,  of  her  step 
(according  as  you  view  it)  was  seen  when,  not 
long  after,  she  received  a  note  from  her  former 
husband  Andcrling.  It  was  a  hasty  and  tender 
epistle,  and  perhaps  it  was  fortunate  that  it  ar- 
rived during  the  temporary  absence  of  Lord 
Icenway.  His  worthless  wife,  said  Andcrling, 
had  just  died  in  Quebec ;  he  had  gone  there  to 
ascertain  particulai's,  and  had  seen  the  unfortu- 
nate woman  buried.  He  now  was  hastening  to 
England  to  repair  the  wrong  he  had  done  liis 
Maria.  He  asked  her  to  meet  him  at  Southamp- 
ton, his  port  of  arrival ;  which  she  need  be  in  no 
fear  of  doing,  as  he  had  changed  his  name,  and 
was  almost  absolutely  unknown  in  Europe.  He 
would  remarry  her  immediately,  and  live  with 
her  in  any  part  of  the  Continent,  as  they  had 
originally  intended,  where,  for  the  great  love  he 


180  A    GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

still  bore  her,  he  would  devote  himself  to  her  serv- 
ice for  the  rest  of  his  days. 

Lady  Icenway,  self-possessed  as  it  was  her  nat- 
ure to  be,  was  yet  much  disturbed  at  this  news, 
and  set  off  to  meet  him,  unattended,  as  soon  as 
she  heard  that  the  ship  was  in  sight.  As  soon  as 
they  stood  face  to  face  she  found  that  she  still 
possessed  all  her  old  influence  over  him,  though 
his  power  to  fascinate  her  had  quite  departed.  In 
his  sorrow  for  his  offence  against  her,  he  had  be- 
come a  man  of  strict  religious  habits,  self-deny- 
ing as  a  lenten  saint,  though  formerly  he  had  been 
a  free  and  joyous  liver.  Having  first  got  him  to 
swear  to  make  her  any  amends  she  should  choose 
(which  he  was  imagining  must  be  by  a  true  mar- 
riage), she  informed  him  that  she  had  already 
wedded  another  husband,  an  excellent  man  of  an- 
cient family  and  possessions,  who  had  given  her 
a  title,  in  which  she  much  rejoiced. 

At  this  the  countenance  of  the  poor  foreign 
gentleman  became  cold  as  clay,  and  his  heart 
withered  within  him;  for  as  it  had  been  her  beau- 
ty and  bearing  which  had  led  him  to  sin  to  obtain 
her,  so,  now  that  her  beauty  was  in  fuller  bloom, 
and  her  manner  more  haughty  by  her  success,  did 
he  feel  her  fascination  to  be  almost  more  than  he 
could  bear.  Nevertheless,  having  sworn  his  word, 
he  undertook  to  obey  her  commands,  which  were 
simply  a  renewal  of  her  old  request  —  that  he 
would  depart  for  some  foreign  country,  and  never 
reveal  his  existence  to  her  friends,  or  husband,  or 


THE   LADY   tCENWAY.  181 

any  person  in  England ;  never  trouble  her  more, 
seeing  how  great  a  harm  it  would  do  her  in  the 
high  position  which  she  at  present  occupied. 

He  bowed  his  head,  "And  the  child  —  our 
child  ?"  he  said. 

"He  is  well,"  says  she — "quite  well." 

With  this  the  unhappy  gentleman  departed, 
much  sadder  in  his  heart  than  on  his  voyage  to 
England;  for  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  a 
woman  who  rated  her  honor  so  highly  as  Maria 
had  done,  and  who  was  the  mother  of  a  child  of 
his,  would  have  adopted  such  means  as  this  for 
the  restoration  of  that  honor,  and  at  so  surpris- 
ingly early  a  date.  He  had  fully  calculated  on 
making  her  his  wife  in  law  and  truth,  and  of  liv- 
ing in  cheerful  unity  with  her  and  his  offspring, 
for  whom  he  felt  a  deep  and  growing  tenderness, 
though  he  had  never  once  seen  the  child. 

The  lady  returned  to  her  mansion  beyond  Win- 
toncester,  and  told  nothing  of  the  interview  to 
her  noble  husband,  who  had  fortunately  gone  that 
day  to  do  a  little  cocking  and  ratting  out  by 
Weydon  Priors  and  knew  nothing  of  her  move- 
ments. She  had  dismissed  her  poor  Anderling 
peremptorily  enough ;  yet  she  would  often  after 
this  look  in  the  face  of  the  child  of  her  so-called 
widowhood,  to  discover  what  and  how  many 
traits  of  his  father  were  to  be  seen  in  his  linea- 
ments. For  this  she  had  ample  opportunity  dur- 
ing the  following  autumn  and  winter  months,  her 
husband  being  a  matter-of-fact  nobleman,  who 


182  A    GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

spent  the  greater  part  of  his  time  in  field  sports 
and  agriculture. 

One  winter  day,  when  he  had  started  for  a  meet 
of  the  hounds  a  long  way  from  the  house — it  be- 
ing his  custom  to  hunt  three  or  four  times  a  week 
at  this  season  of  the  year — she  had  walked  into 
the  sunshine  upon  the  terrace  before  the  windows, 
where  there  fell  at  her  feet  some  little  white  ob- 
ject that  had  come  over  a  boundary  wall  hard  by. 
It  proved  to  be  a  tiny  note  wrapped  round  a  stone. 
Lady  Icenway  opened  it  and  read  it,  and  immedi- 
ately (no  doubt  with  a  stern  fixture  of  her  queen- 
ly countenance)  walked  hastily  along  the  terrace, 
and  through  the  door  into  the  shrubbery,  whence 
the  note  had  come.  The  man  who  had  first  mar- 
ried her  stood  under  the  bushes  before  her.  It 
was  plain  from  his  appearance  that  something  had 
gone  wrong  with  him. 

"  You  notice  a  change  in  me,  my  best-beloved," 
he  said.  "  Yes,  Maria,  I  have  lost  all  the  wealth 
I  once  possessed,  mainly  by  reckless  gambling  in 
the  Continental  hells  to  which  you  banished  me. 
But  one  thing  in  the  world  remains  to  me — the 
child — and  it  is  for  bim  that  I  have  intruded  here. 
Don't  fear  me,  darling.  I  shall  not  inconvenience 
you  long;  I  love  you  too  well.  But  I  think  of 
the  boy  day  and  night — I  cannot  help  it — I  cannot 
keep  my  feeling  for  him  down ;  and  I  long  to  see 
him  and  speak  a  word  to  him  once  in  my  lifetime !" 

"But  your  oath?"  says  she.  "You  promised 
never  to  reveal  by  word  or  sign — " 


THE   LADY    ICENWAY.  183 

"  I  will  reveal  nothing.  Only  let  me  see  the 
child.  I  know  what  I  have  sworn  to  you,  cruel 
mistress,  and  I  respect  my  oath.  Otherwise  I 
might  have  seen  him  by  some  subterfuge.  But  I 
preferred  the  frank  course  of  asking  your  permis- 
sion." 

She  demurred,  with  the  haughty  severity  which 
had  grown  part  of  her  character,  and  which  her 
elevation  to  the  rank  of  a  peeress  had  rather  in- 
tensified than  diminished.  She  said  that  she 
would  consider,  and  would  give  him  an  answer 
the  day  after  the  next,  at  the  same  hour  and 
place,  when  her  husband  would  again  be  absent 
with  his  pack  of  hounds. 

The  gentleman  waited  patiently.  Lady  Icen- 
way,  who  had  now  no  conscious  love  left  for  him, 
well  considered  the  matter,  and  felt  that  it  would 
be  advisable  not  to  push  to  extremes  a  man  of  so 
passionate  a  heart.  On  the  day  and  hour  she  met 
him,  as  she  had  promised  to  do. 

"  You  shall  see  him,"  she  said  ;  "  of  course  on 
the  strict  condition  that  you  do  not  reveal  your- 
self, and  hence,  though  you  see  him,  he  must  not 
see  you,  or  your  manner  might  betray  you  and 
me.  I  will  lull  him  into  a  nap  in  the  afternoon, 
and  then  I  will  come  to  you  here,  and  fetch  you 
in-doors  by  a  private  way." 

The  unfortunate  fatlier,  whose  misdemeanor 
had  recoiled  upon  his  own  head  in  a  way  he  could 
not  have  foreseen,  promised  to  adhere  to  her  in- 
structions, and  waited  in  the  shrubberies  till  the 


184  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

moment  when  she  should  call  him.  This  she 
duly  did  about  three  o'clock  that  day,  leading 
him  in  by  a  garden  door,  and  up -stairs  to  the 
nursery  where  the  child  lay.  He  was  in  his  little 
cot,  breathing  calmly,  his  arm  thrown  over  his 
head,  and  his  silken  curls  crushed  into  the  pillow. 
His  father,  now  almost  to  be  pitied,  bent  over 
him,  and  a  tear  from  his  eye  wetted  the  coverlet. 

She  held  up  a  warning  finger  as  he  lowered  his 
mouth  to  the  lips  of  the  boy. 

"  But  oh,  why  not  ?"  implored  he. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  she,  relenting.  "  But 
as  gently  as  possible." 

He  kissed  the  child  without  waking  him,  turned, 
gave  him  a  last  look,  and  followed  her  out  of  the 
chamber,  when  she  conducted  him  off  the  prem- 
ises by  the  way  he  had  come. 

But  this  remedy  for  his  sadness  of  heart  at  be- 
ing a  stranger  to  his  own  son  had  the  effect  of 
intensifying  the  malady ;  for  while  originally — 
not  knowing  or  ever  having  seen  the  boy  —  he 
had  loved  him  vaguely  and  imaginative!}^  only, 
he  now  became  attached  to  him  in  flesh  and  bone, 
as  any  parent  might ;  and  the  feeling  that  he 
could  at  best  only  see  his  child  at  the  rarest  and 
most  cursory  moments,  if  at  all,  drove  him  into 
a  state  of  distraction  which  threatened  to  over- 
throw his  promise  to  the  boy's  mother  to  keep 
out  of  his  sight.  But  such  was  his  chivalrous  re- 
spect for  Lady  Icenway,  and  his  regret  at  having 
ever  deceived  her,  that  he  schooled  his  poor  heart 


THE    LADY   ICENWAY.  185 

into  submission.  Owing  to  his  loneliness,  all  the 
fervor  of  which  he  was  cajiable — and  that  was 
much — flowed  now  in  the  channel  of  parental  and 
marital  love — for  a  child  who  did  not  know  him, 
and  a  woman  who  had  ceased  to  love  him. 

At  length  this  singular  punishment  became 
such  a  torture  to  the  poor  foreigner  that  he  re- 
solved to  lessen  it  at  all  hazards  compatible  wnth 
punctilious  care  for  the  name  of  the  lady,  his  for- 
mer wife,  to  whom  his  attachment  seemed  to  in- 
crease in  proportion  to  her  punitive  treatment  of 
him.  At  one  time  of  his  life  he  had  taken  great 
interest  in  tulip-culture,  as  well  as  gardening  in 
general ;  and  since  the  ruin  of  his  fortunes,  and 
his  arrival  in  England,  he  had  made  of  his  knowl- 
edge a  precarious  income  in  the  hot -houses  of 
nurserymen  and  others.  With  the  now  idea  in 
his  head  he  applied  himself  zealously  to  the  busi- 
ness, till  he  acquired  in  a  few  months  great  skill 
in  horticulture.  Waiting  till  the  noble  lord,  his 
lady's  husband,  had  room  for  an  under-gardener 
of  a  general  sort,  he  offered  himself  for  the  place, 
and  was  engaged  immediately  by  reason  of  his 
civility  and  intelligence,  before  Lady  Iccnway 
knew  anything  of  the  matter.  Much,  therefore, 
did  he  surjjrise  her  when  she  found  him  in  the 
conservatories  of  her  mansion  a  week  or  two  after 
his  arrival.  Tlie  punishment  of  instant  dismissal, 
with  which  at  first  she  haughtily  threatened  liiin, 
my  lady  thought  fit,  on  reflection,  not  to  enforce. 
While  he  served  her  thus  she  knew  he  would  not 


186  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLK   DAMES. 

harm  her  by  a  word,  while,  if  he  were  expelled, 
chagrin  might  induce  him  to  reveal  in  a  moment 
of  exasperation  what  kind  treatment  would  assist 
him  to  conceal. 

So  he  was  allowed  to  remain  on  the  premises, 
and  had  for  his  residence  a  little  cottage  by  the 
garden  wall  vvhich  had  been  the  domicile  of  some 
of  his  predecessors  in  the  same  occupation.  Here 
he  lived  absolutely  alone,  and  spent  much  of  his 
leisure  in  reading,  but  the  greater  part  in  watch- 
ing the  windows  and  lawns  of  his  lady's  house 
for  glimpses  of  the  form  of  the  child.  It  was  for 
that  child's  sake  that  he  abandoned  the  tenets  of 
the  Roman  Catholic  Church  in  which  he  had  been 
reared,  and  became  the  most  regular  attendant  at 
the  services  in  the  parish  place  of  worship  hard 
by,  where,  sitting  behind  the  pew  of  my  lady,  ray 
lord,  and  his  step-son,  the  gardener  could  pensively 
study  the  traits  and  movements  of  the  youngster 
at  only  a  few  feet  distance,  without  suspicion  or 
hinderance.  ^ 

He  filled  his  post  for  more  than  two  years  with 
a  pleasure  to  himself  which,  though  mournful, 
was  soothing,  his  lady  never  forgiving  him  or  al- 
lowing him  to  be  anything  more  than  "  the  gar- 
dener "  to  her  child,  though  once  or  twice  the  boy 
said :  "  That  gardener's  eyes  are  so  sad  !  Why 
does  he  look  so  sadly  at  me  ?"  He  sunned  him- 
self in  her  scornf  uluess  as  if  it  were  love,  and  his 
ears  drank  in  her  curt  monosyllables  as  though 
they  were  rhapsodies  of  endearment.     Strangely 


THE    LADY   ICENWAY.  187 

enough,  the  coldness  with  which  she  treated  her 
foreigner  began  to  be  the  conduct  of  Lord  Icen- 
way  towards  herself.  It  was  a  matter  of  great 
anxiety  to  him  that  there  should  be  a  lineal  suc- 
cessor to  the  title,  yet  no  sign  of  that  successor 
appeared.  One  day  he  complained  to  her  quite 
roughly  of  his  fate.  "All  will  go  to  that  dolt  of 
a  cousin  !"  he  cried.  "  I'd  sooner  see  my  name 
and  place  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea !" 

The  lady  soothed  him  and  fell  into  thought, 
and  did  not  recriminate.  But  one  day,  soon  af- 
ter, she  went  down  to  the  cottage  of  the  gardener 
to  inquire  how  he  was  getting  on,  for  he  had  been 
ailing  of  late,  though,  as  was  supposed,  not  seri- 
ously. Though  she  often  visited  the  poor,  she 
had  never  entered  her  under-gardener's  home  be- 
fore, and  was  much  surprised — even  grieved  and 
dismayed — to  find  that  he  was  too  ill  to  rise  from 
his  bed.  She  went  back  to  her  mansion,  and  re- 
turned with  some  delicate  soup,  that  she  might 
have  a  reason  fqn  seeing  him. 

His  condition  was  so  feeble  and  alarming,  and 
his  face  so  thin,  that  it  quite  shocked  her  soften- 
ing heart,  and  gazing  upon  him,  she  said  :  "You 
must  get  well  —  you  must!  I  have  been  hard 
with  you — I  know  it.     I  will  not  be  so  again." 

The  sick  and  dying  man — for  he  was  dying  in- 
deed— took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 
"Too  late,  my  darling,  too  late  !"  he  murmured. 

"But  you  must  not  die!  Oh,  you  must  not!" 
she  said.    And  on  an  impulse  she  bent  dowo  and 


188        A  GROUP  OP  NOBLE  DAMES. 

whispered  some  words  to  him,  blushing  as  she 
had  blushed  in  her  maiden  days. 

He  replied  by  a  faint,  wan  smile.  "Time  was! 
.  .  .  but  that's  past,"  he  said.     "  I  must  die  !" 

And  die  he  did,  a  few  days  later,  as  the  sun 
was  going  down  behind  the  garden  wall.  Her 
harshness  seemed  to  come  trebly  home  to  her 
then,  and  she  remorsefully  exclaimed  against  her- 
self in  secret  and  alone.  Her  one  desire  now  was 
to  erect  some  tribute  to  his  memory,  without  its 
being  recognized  as  her  handiwork.  In  the  com- 
pletion of  this  scheme  there  arrived  a  few  months 
later  a  handsome  stained -glass  window  for  the 
church ;  and  when  it  was  unpacked  and  in  course 
of  erection  Lord  Icenway  strolled  into  the  build- 
ing with  his  wife. 

" '  Erected  to  his  tneniory  by  his  grieving  wid- 
010,'' "  he  said,  reading  the  legend  on  the  glass. 
"  I  didn't  know  that  he  had  a  wife ;  I've  never 
seen  her." 

"  Oh  yes,  you  must  have,  Icenway,  only  you 
forget,"  replied  his  lady,  blandly.  "  But  she 
didn't  live  with  him,  and  was  seldom  seen  visit- 
ing him,  because  there  were  differences  between 
them  ;  which,  as  is  usually  the  case,  makes  her  all^ 
the  more  sorry  now." 

"And  go  ruining  herself  by  this  expensive 
ruby-and-azure  glass  design." 

"  She  is  not  poor,  they  say." 

As  Lord  Icenway  grew  older  he  became  crust- 
ier and  crustier,  and  whenever  he  set  eyes  on  his 


THE   LADY   ICENWAT.  189 

wife's  boy  by  her  other  husband  he  would  burst 
out  morosely,  saying : 

"  'Tis  a  very  odd  thing,  my  lady,  that  you 
could  oblige  your  first  husband,  and  couldn't 
oblige  me." 

"  Ah,  if  I  bad  only  thought  of  it  sooner  !"  she 
murmured. 

"  What  ?"  said  he. 

"  Nothing,  dearest,"  replied  Lady  Icenway, 


The  colonel  was  the  first  to  comment  upon  the 
churcli-warden's  t:ile,  by  saying  that  the  fate  of  the 
poor  fellow  was  rather  a  hard  one. 

The  gentleman-tradesman  could  not  see  that  his 
fate  was  at  all  too  hard  for  him.  He  was  legally 
nothing  to  her,  and  he  had  served  her  shamefully. 
If  he  had  been  really  her  husband  it  would  have 
stood  differently. 

The  bookworm  remarked  that  Lord  IcenAvay 
seemed  to  have  been  a  ver}''  unsuspicious  man, 
with  which  view  a  fat  member  with  a  crimson 
face  agreed.  It  was  true  his  wife  was  a  very 
close -mouthed  personage,  which  made  a  differ- 
ence. If  she  had  spoken  out  recklessly  her  lord 
might  have  been  suspicious  enough,  as  in  the  case 
of  that  lady  who  lived  at  Stapleford  Park  in 
their  great-grandfathers'  time.  Though  there,  to 
be  sure,  considerations  arose  which  made  her  hus- 
band view  matters  with  much  philosophy. 


190        A  GROUP  OP  NOBLE  DAMES. 

A  few  of  tlie  members  doubted  the  possibility 
of  this. 

The  crimson  man,  who  was  a  retired  maltster 
of  comfortable  means,  vetitrii,  and  short  in  stature, 
cleared  his  throat,  blew  off  his  superfluous  breath, 
and  proceeded  to  give  the  instance  before  alluded 
to  of  such  possibility,  first  apologizing  for  his  her- 
oine's lack  of  a  title,  it  never  having  been  his 
good-fortune  to  know  many  of  the  nobility.  To 
his  style  of  narrative  the  following  is  only  an 
approximation. 


DAME  THE   SIXTH. 

Squire  jpetrlcft's  %a^^, 

BY  THE  CRIMSON  MALTSTER. 

Folk  who  are  at  all  acquainted  with  the  tradi- 
tions of  Stapleford  Park  will  not  need  to  be  told 
that  in  the  middle  of  the  last  centurj'-  it  was  owned 
by  that  trump  of  mortgagees,  Timothy  Petrick, 
whose  skill  in  gaining  possession  of  fair  estates  by 
granting  sums  of  money  on  their  title-deeds  has 
seldom  if  ever  been  equalled  in  our  part  of  Eng- 
land. Timothy  was  a  lawyer  by  profession,  and 
agent  to  several  noblemen,  by  which  means  his 
special  line  of  business  became  opened  to  him  by 
a  sort  of  revelation.  It  is  said  that  a  relative  of 
his,  a  very  deep  thinker,  who  afterwards  had  the 
misfortune  to  be  transported  for  life  for  mistaken 
notions  on  the  signing  of  a  will,  taught  him  con- 
siderable legal  lore,  which  he  creditably  resolved 
never  to  throw  away  for  the  benefit  of  other  peo- 
ple, but  to  reserve  it  entirely  for  his  own. 

However,  I  have  nothing  in  particular  to  say 


192  A  GROUP   OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

about  his  early  and  active  days,  but  rather  of  the 
time  when,  an  old  man,  he  had  become  the  owner 
of  vast  estates  by  the  means  I  have  signified — 
among  them  the  great  manor  of  Stapleford,  on 
which  he  lived,  in  the  splendid  old  mansion  now 
pulled  down  ;  likewise  estates  at  Marlott,  estates 
near  Sherton  Abbas,  nearly  all  the  borough  of 
Millpool,  and  many  properties  near  Ivell.  Indeed, 
I  can't  call  to  mind  half  his  landed  possessions, 
and  I  don't  know  that  it  matters  much  at  this 
time  of  day,  seeing  that  he's  been  dead  and  gone 
many  years.  It  is  said  that  when  he  bought  an 
estate  he  would  not  decide  to  pay  the  price  till  he 
had  walked  over  every  single  acre  with  his  own 
two  feet,  and  prodded  the  soil  at  every  point  with 
his  own  spud,  to  test  its  quality,  which,  if  we  re- 
gard the  extent  of  his  properties,  must  have  been 
a  stiff  business  for  him. 

At  the  time  I  am  speaking  of  he  was  a  man 
over  eighty,  and  his  son  was  dead;  but  he  had 
two  grandsons,  the  eldest  of  whom,  his  name- 
sake, was  married,  and  was  shortly  expecting 
issue.  Just  then  the  grandfather  was  taken  ill, 
for  death,  as  it  seemed,  considering  his  age.  By 
his  will  the  old  man  had  created  an  entail  (as  I 
believe  the  lawyers  call  it),  devising  the  whole  of 
the  estates  to  his  elder  grandson  and  his  issue 
male,  failing  which,  to  his  younger  grandson  and 
his  issue  male,  failing  which,  to  remoter  relatives, 
who  need  not  be  mentioned  now. 

While  old  Timothy  Petrick  was  lying  ill,  his 


SQUIRE   PETEICKS  LADY.  193 

elder  grandson's  wife,  Annetta,  gave  birth  to  her 
expected  child,  who,  as  fortune  would  have  it,  was 
a  son,  Timothy,  her  husband,  tbough  sprung  of 
a  scheming  family,  was  no  great  schemer  himself; 
he  was  the  single  one  of  the  Petricks  then  living 
whose  heart  had  ever  been  greatly  moved  by  sen- 
timents which  did  not  run  in  the  groove  of  ambi- 
tion; and  on  this  account  he  had  not  married  well, 
as  the  saying  is,  his  wife  having  been  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  family  of  no  better  beginnings  than  his 
own  ;  that  is  to  say,  her  father  was  a  country 
townsman  of  the  professional  class.  But  she  was 
a  very  pretty  woman,  by  all  accounts,  and  her 
husband  had  seen,  courted,  and  married  her  in 
a  high  tide  of  infatuation,  after  a  very  short 
acquaintance,  and  with  very  little  knowledge  of 
her  heart's  history.  lie  had  never  found  reason 
to  regret  his  choice  as  yet,  and  his  anxiety  for  her 
recovery  was  great. 

She  was  supposed  to  be  out  of  danger,  and  her- 
self and  the  child  progressing  well,  when  there 
was  a  change  for  the  worse,  and  she  sank  so  rap- 
idly that  she  was  soon  given  over.  When  she  felt 
that  she  was  about  to  leave  him,  Annetta  sent 
for  her  husband,  and,  on  his  speedy  entry  and 
assurance  that  they  were  alone,  she  made  him 
solemnly  vow  to  give  the  child  every  care  in  any 
circumstances  that  might  arise,  if  it  should  please 
Heaven  to  take  her.  This,  of  course,  he  readily 
promised.  Then,  after  some  hesitation,  she  told 
him  that  she  could  not  die  with  a  falsehood  upon 
13 


194        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

her  soul,  and  dire  deceit  in  her  life ;  she  must  make 
a  terrible  confession  to  him  before  her  lips  were 
sealed  forever.  She  thereupon  related  an  incident 
concerning  the  baby's  parentage  which  was  not  as 
he  supposed. 

Timothy  Petrick,  though  a  quick-feeling  man, 
was  not  of  a  sort  to  show  nerves  outwardly;  and 
he  bore  himself  as  heroically  as  he  possibly  could 
do  in  this  trying  moment  of  his  life.  That  same 
night  his  wife  died ;  and  while  she  lay  dead,  and 
before  her  funeral,  he  hastened  to  the  bedside  of 
his  sick  grandfather,  and  revealed  to  him  all  that 
had  happened — the  baby's  birth,  his  wife's  con- 
fession, and  her  death,  beseeching  the  aged  man, 
as  he  loved  him,  to  bestir  himself  now,  at  the 
eleventh  hour,  and  alter  his  will  so  as  to  dish  the 
intruder.  Old  Timothy,  seeing  matters  in  the 
same  light  as  his  gi'andson,  required  no  urging 
against  allowing  anything  to  stand  in  the  way  of 
legitimate  inheritance ;  he  executed  another  will, 
limiting  the  entail  to  Timothy,  his  grandson,  for 
life,  and  his  male  heirs  thereafter  to  be  born; 
after  them  to  his  other  grandson,  Edward,  and 
Edward's  heirs.  Thus  the  newly -born  infant, 
who  had  been  the  centre  of  so  many  hopes,  was 
cut  off  and  scorned  as  none  of  the  elect. 

The  old  mortgagee  lived  but  a  short  time  after 
this,  the  excitement  of  the  discovery  having  told 
upon  him  considerably,  and  he  was  gathered  to 
his  fathers  like  the  most  charitable  man  in  his 
neighborhood.    Both  wife  and  grandparent  being 


SQUIRE    PETRICK's   LADY.  195 

buried,  Timothy  settled  down  to  his  usual  life  as 
well  as  he  was  able,  mentally  satisfied  that  he  had, 
by  promj^t  action,  defeated  the  consequences  of 
such  dire  domestic  treachery  as  had  been  shown 
towards  him,  and  resolving  to  marry  a  second 
time  as  soon  as  he  could  satisfy  himself  in  the 
choice  of  a  wife. 

But  men  do  not  always  know  themselves.  The 
imbittered  state  of  Timothy  Petrick's  mind  bred 
in  him  by  degrees  such  a  hatred  and  mistrust  of 
womankind  that,  though  several  specimens  of  high 
attractiveness-  came  under  his  eyes,  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  the  point  of  projiosing  marriage. 
He  dreaded  to  take  up  the  position  of  husband 
a  second  time,  discerning  a  trap  in  every  petti- 
coat, and  a  Slough  of  Despond  in  possible  heirs. 
"  What  has  happened  once,  when  all  seemed  so 
fair,  may  happen  again,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I'll 
risk  my  name  no  more."  So  he  abstained  from 
marriage,  and  overcame  his  wish  for  a  lineal  de- 
scendant to  follow  him  in  the  ownership  of  Sta- 
pleford. 

Timothy  had  scarcely  noticed  the  unfortunate 
child  that  his  wife  had  borne,  after  arranging  for 
a  meagre  fulfilment  of  his  promise  to  her  to  take 
care  of  the  boy,  by  having  him  brought  up  in  his 
house.  Occasionally,  remembering  this  promise, 
he  went  and  glanced  at  the  child,  saw  that  he  was 
doing  well,  gave  a  few  special  directions,  and 
again  went  his  solitary  way.  Thus  he  and  the 
child  lived  on  in  the  Staplcford  mansion-house  till 


196  A   GROtJP   OF  NOBLE   DAMES. 

two  or  three  years  had  passed  by.  One  day  he 
was  walking  in  the  garden,  and  by  some  accident 
left  his  snuffbox  on  a  bench.  When  he  came 
back  to  find  it  he  saw  the  little  boy  standing 
there  ;  he  had  escaped  his  nurse,  and  was  making 
a  plaything  of  the  box,  in  spite  of  the  convulsive 
sneezings  which  the  game  brought  in  its  train. 
Then  the  man  with  the  incrusted  heart  became 
interested  in  the  little  fellow's  persistence  in  his 
play  under  such  discomforts  ;  he  looked  in  the 
child's  face,  saw  there  his  wife's  countenance, 
though  he  did  not  see  his  own,  and  fell  into 
thought  on  the  piteousness  of  childhood — partic- 
ularly of  despised  and  rejected  childhood,  like 
this  before  him. 

From  that  hour,  try  as  he  would  to  counteract 
the  feeling,  the  human  necessity  to  love  something 
or  other  got  the  better  of  what  he  had  called  his 
wisdom,  and  shaped  itself  in  a  tender  anxiety  for 
the  youngster  Rupert.  This  name  had  been  given 
him  by  his  dying  mother  when,  at  her  request,  the 
child  was  baptized  in  her  chamber,  lest  he  should 
not  survive  for  public  baptism  ;  and  her  husband 
had  never  thought  of  it  as  a  name  of  any  signifi- 
cance till,  about  this  time,  he  learned  by  accident 
that  it  was  the  name  of  the  young  Marquis  of 
Christminster,  son  of  the  Duke  of  Southwester- 
land,  for  whom  Annetta  had  cherished  warm  feel- 
ings before  her  marriage.  Recollecting  some 
wandering  phrases  in  his  wife's  last  words,  which 
he  had  not  understood  at  the  time,  he  perceived 


SQUIRE   PETEICK's   LADY.  197 

as  last  that  this  was  the  person  to  whom  she  had 
alluded  when  affording  him  a  clew  to  little  Ru- 
pert's history. 

He  would  sit  in  silence  for  hours  with  the 
child,  being  no  great  speaker  at  the  best  of  times; 
but  the  boy,  on  his  part,  was  too  ready  with  his 
tongue  for  any  break  in  discourse  to  arise  because 
Timothy  Petrick  had  nothing  to  say.  After  idling 
away  his  mornings  in  this  manner,  Petrick  would 
go  to  his  own  room  and  swear  in  long,  loud  whis- 
pers, and  walk  up  and  down,  calling  himself  the 
most  ridiculous  dolt  that  ever  lived,  and  declar- 
ing that  he  would  never  go  near  the  little  fellow 
again;  to  which  resolve  he  would  adhere  for  the 
space,  perhaps,  of  a  day.  Such  cases  are  happily 
not  new  to  human  nature,  but  there  never  was  a 
case  in  which  a  man  more  completely  befooled  his 
former  self  than  in  this. 

As  the  child  grew  up,  Timothy's  attachment  to 
him  grew  deeper,  till  Rupert  became  almost  the 
sole  object  for  which  he  lived.  There  had  been 
enough  of  the  family  ambition  latent  in  him  for 
Timothy  Petrick  to  feel  a  little  envy  when,  some 
time  before  this  date,  his  brother  Edward  had 
been  accepted  by  the  Honorable  Harriet  Mount- 
clere,  daughter  of  the  second  viscount  of  that 
name  and  title  ;  but  having  discovered,  as  I  have 
before  stated,  the  paternity  of  his  boy  Rupert  to 
lurk  in  even  a  higher  stratum  of  society,  those  en- 
vious feelings  speedily  dispersed.  Indeed,  the 
more  he  reflected  thereon,  after  his  brother's  aris- 


198  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

tocratic  marriage,  the  more  content  did  he  become. 
His  late  wife  took  softer  outline  in  his  memory, 
as  he  thought  of  the  lofty  taste  she  had  displayed, 
though  only  a  plain  burgher's  daughter,  and  the 
justification  for  his  weakness  in  loving  the  child — 
the  justification  that  he  had  longed  for — was  af- 
forded now  in  the  knowledge  that  the  boy  was  by 
nature,  if  not  by  name,  a  representative  of  one  of 
the  noblest  houses  in  England. 

"She  was  a  woman  of  grand  instincts,  after 
all,"  he  said  to  himself,  proudly.  "To  fix  her 
choice  upon  the  immediate  successor  in  that  ducal 
line — it  was  finely  conceived !  Had  he  been  of 
low  blood  like  myself  or  my  relations  she  would 
scarce  have  deserved  the  harsh  measure  that  I 
have  dealt  out  to  her  and  her  offspring.  How 
much  less,  then,  when  such  grovelling  tastes  were 
farthest  from  her  soul !  The  man  Annetta  loved 
was  noble,  and  my  boy  is  noble  in  spite  of  me." 

The  after-clap  was  inevitable,  and  it  soon  came. 
"So  far,"  he  reasoned,  "from  cutting  off  this 
child  from  inheritance  of  my  estates,  as  I  have 
done,  I  should  have  rejoiced  in  the  possession  of 
him  !  He  is  of  pure  stock  on  one  side  at  least, 
while  in  the  ordinary  run  of  affairs  he  would  have 
been  a  commoner  to  the  bone." 

Being  a  man,  whatever  his  faults,  of  good  old 
beliefs  in  the  divinity  of  kings  and  those  about 
'em,  the  more  he  overhauled  the  case  in  this  light 
the  more  strongly  did  his  poor  wife's  conduct  in 
improving  the  blood  and  breed  of  the  Petrick 


SQUIKE    PETRICK's   LADY.  199 

family  win  his  heart.  He  considered  what  ugly, 
idle,  hard-drinking  scamps  many  of  his  own  rela- 
tions had  been ;  the  miserable  scriveners,  usurers, 
and  pawnbrokers  that  he  had  numbered  among 
his  forefathers,  and  the  probability  that  some  of 
their  bad  qualities  would  have  come  out  in  a 
merely  corporeal  child,  to  give  him  sorrow  in  his 
old  age,  turn  his  black  hairs  gray,  his  gray  hairs 
white,  cut  down  every  stick  of  timber,  and  Heav- 
en knows  what  all,  had  he  not,  like  a  skilful  gar- 
dener, minded  his  grafting  and  changed  the  sort; 
till  at  length  this  right-minded  man  fell  down  on 
his  knees  every  night  and  morning  and  thanked 
God  that  he  was  not  as  other  meanly-descended 
fathers  in  such  matters. 

It  was  in  the  peculiar  disposition  of  the  Petrick 
family  that  the  satisfaction  which  ultimately  set- 
tled in  Timothy's  breast  found  nourishment.  The 
Petricks  had  adored  the  nobility,  and  plucked 
them  at  the  same  time.  That  excellent  man  Izaak 
Walton's  feelings  about  fish  were  much  akin  to 
those  of  old  Timothy  Petrick,  and  of  his  descend- 
ants in  a  lesser  degree,  concerning  the  landed 
aristocracy.  To  torture  and  to  love  simultaneous- 
ly is  a  proceeding  strange  to  reason,  but  possible 
to  practice,  as  these  instances  show. 

Hence,  when  Timothy's  brother  Edward  said 
slightingly  one  day  that  Timothy's  son  was  well 
enough,  but  that  he  had  nothing  but  shops  and 
oHices  in  his  backward  perspective,  while  his  own 
children,  should  he  have  any,  would  be  far  differ- 


200  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

ent,  in  possessing  such  a  mother  as  the  Honorable 
Harriet,  Timothy  felt  a  bonnd  of  triumph  within 
him  at  the  power  he  possessed  of  contradicting 
that  statement  if  he  chose. 

So  much  was  he  interested  in  his  boy  in  this 
new  aspect  that  he  now  began  to  read  up  chron- 
icles of  the  illustrious  house  ennobled  as  the 
Dukes  of  Soutliwesterland,  from  their  very  be- 
ginning in  the  glories  of  the  Restoration  of  the 
blessed  Charles  till  the  year  of  his  own  time.  He 
mentally  noted  their  gifts  from  royalty,  grants  of 
lands,  purchases,  intermarriages,  plantings,  and 
buildings  ;  more  particularly  their  political  and 
military  achievements,  which  had  been  great,  and 
their  performances  in  arts  and  letters,  which  had 
been  by  no  means  contemptible.  He  studied 
prints  of  the  poi'traits  of  that  family,  and  then, 
like  a  chemist  watching  a  crystallization,  began 
to  examine  young  Rupert's  face  for  the  unfolding 
of  those  historic  curves  and  shades  that  the  paint- 
ers Vandyke  and  Lely  had  perpetuated  on  canvas. 

When  the  boy  reached  the  most  fascinating 
age  of  childhood,  and  his  shouts  of  laughter  ran 
through  Stapleford  House  from  end  to  end,  the  re- 
morse that  oppressed  Timothy  Petrick  knew  no 
bounds.  Of  all  people  in  the  world  this  Rupert 
was  the  one  on  whom  he  could  have  wished  the 
estates  to  devolve  ;  yet  Rupert,  by  Timothy's  own 
desperate  strategy  at  the  time  of  his  birth,  had 
been  ousted  from  all  inheritance  of  them  ;  and, 
since  he  did  not  mean  to  remarry,  the  manors 


SQUIRE    PETRICk's    LADY.  201 

would  pass  to  his  brother  and  his  brother's  chil- 
dren, who  would  be  nothing  to  him,  Avhose  boast- 
ed pedigree  on  one  side  would  be  nothing  to  his 
Rupert's. 

Had  he  only  left  the  first  will  of  his  grand- 
father alone! 

His  mind  ran  on  the  wills  continually,  both  of 
which  were  in  existence,  and  the  first,  the  can- 
celled one,  in  his  own  possession.  Night  after 
night,  Avhen  the  servants  were  all  abed,  and  the 
click  of  safety-locks  sounded  as  loud  as  a  crash, 
he  looked  at  that  first  will,  and  wished  it  had 
been  the  second  and  not  the  first. 

The  crisis  came  at  last.  One  night,  after  hav- 
ing enjoyed  the  boy's  company  for  hours,  he 
could  no  longer  bear  that  his  beloved  Rupert 
should  be  disi)0ssessed,  and  he  committed  the 
felonious  deed  of  altering  the  date  of  the  earlier 
will  to  a  fortnight  later,  which  made  its  execution 
appear  subsequent  to  the  date  of  the  second  will 
already  proved.  He  then  boldly  propounded  the 
first  will  as  the  second. 

His  brother  Edward  submitted  to  what  appear- 
ed to  be  not  only  incontestiblc  fact,  but  a  far 
more  likely  disposition  of  old  Timothy's  property; 
for,  like  many  others,  he  had  been  much  surprised 
at  the  limitations  defined  in  the  other  will,  having 
no  clew  to  their  cause.  He  joined  his  brother 
Timothy  in  setting  aside  the  hitherto  accepted 
document,  and  matters  went  on  in  their  usual 
course,  there  being  no  dispositions  in  the  substi- 


202  A    GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

tuted  will  differing  from  those  in  the  other,  ex- 
cept such  as  related  to  a  future  which  had  not  yet 
arrived. 

The  years  moved  on.  Rupert  had  not  yet  re- 
vealed the  anxiously-expected  historic  lineaments 
which  should  foreshadow  the  political  abilities  of 
the  ducal  family  aforesaid,  when  it  happened  on 
a  certain  day  that  Timothy  Petrick  made  the 
acquaintance  of  a  well-known  physician  of  Bud- 
mouth,  who  had  been  the  medical  adviser  and 
friend  of  the  late  Mrs.  Petrick's  family  for  many 
years,  though  after  Annetta's  marriage,  and  con- 
sequent removal  to  Staplefoi'd,  he  had  seen  no 
more  of  her,  the  neighboring  practitioner  who  at- 
tended the  Petricks  having  then  become  her  doc- 
tor as  a  matter  of  course.  Timothy  was  impressed 
by  the  insight  and  knowledge  disclosed  in  the 
conversation  of  the  Budmouth  physician,  and  the 
acquaintance  ripening  to  intimacy,  the  physician 
alluded  to  a  form  of  hallucination  to  which  An- 
netta's mother  and  grandmother  had  been  subject 
— that  of  believing  in  certain  dreams  as  realities. 
He  delicately  inquired  if  Timothy  had  ever  no- 
ticed anything  of  the  sort  in  his  wife  during  her 
lifetime ;  he,  the  physician,  had  fancied  that  he 
discerned  germs  of  the  same  peculiarity  in  Annet- 
ta  when  he  attended  her  in  her  girlhood.  One 
explanation  begat  another,  till  the  dumfounded 
Timothy  Petrick  was  persuaded  in  his  own  mind 
that  Annetta's  confession  to  him  had  been  based 
on  a  delusion. 


SQUIRE    PETRICK's    LADY.  203 

"You  look  down  in  the  mouth  !"  said  the  doc- 
tor, pausing. 

"A  bit  unmanned.  'Tis  unexpected -like," 
sighed  Timothy. 

But  he  could  hardly  believe  it  possible ;  and, 
thinking  it  best  to  be  frank  with  the  doctor,  told 
him  the  whole  story  which,  till  now,  he  had  never 
related  to  living  man,  save  his  dying  grandfather. 
To  his  surprise,  the  physician  informed  him  that 
such  a  form  of  delusion  was  precisely  what  he 
would  have  expected  from  Annetta's  antecedents 
at  such  a  physical  crisis  in  her  life. 

Petrick  prosecuted  his  inquiries  elsewhere  ;  and 
the  upshot  of  his  labors  was,  briefly,  that  a  com- 
parison of  dates  and  places  showed  irrefutably 
that  his  i)oor  wife's  assertion  could  not  possibly 
have  foundation  in  fact.  The  young  Marquis  of 
her  tender  passion — a  highly  moral  and  bright- 
minded  nobleman — had  gone  abroad  the  year  be- 
fore Annetta's  marriage,  and  had  not  returned 
until  after  her  death.  The  young  girl's  love  for 
him  had  been  a  delicate  ideal  dream — no  more. 

Timothy  went  home,  and  the  boy  ran  out  to 
meet  him  ;  whereupon  a  strangely  dismal  feeling 
of  discontent  took  possession  of  his  soul.  After 
all,  then,  there  was  nothing  but  plebeian  blood  in 
the  veins  of  the  heir  to  his  name  and  estates ;  he 
was  not  to  be  succeeded  by  a  noble-natured  line. 
To  be  sure,  Rupert  was  his  son  ;  but  that  glor}' 
and  halo  he  believed  him  to  have  inherited  from 
the  ages,  outshining  that  of  his  brother's  children, 


204       A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

had  departed  from  Rupert's  brow  forever ;  he 
could  no  longer  read  history  in  the  boy's  face  and 
centuries  of  domination  in  his  eyes. 

His  manner  towards  his  son  grew  colder  and 
colder  from  that  day  forward ;  and  it  was  with 
bitterness  of  heart  that  he  discerned  the  charac- 
teristic features  of  the  Petricks  unfolding  them- 
selves by  degrees.  Instead  of  the  elegant  knife- 
edged  nose,  so  typical  of  the  Dukes  of  South- 
westerland,  there  began  to  appear  on  his  face  the 
broad  nostril  and  hollow  bridge  of  his  grandfather 
Timothy.  No  illustrious  line  of  politicians  was 
promised  a  continuator  in  that  graying  blue  eye, 
for  it  was  acquiring  the  expression  of  the  orb  of 
a  particularly  objectionable  cousin  of  his  own ; 
and,  instead  of  the  mouth-curves  which  had  thrill- 
ed Parliamentary  audiences  in  speeches  now  bound 
in  calf  in  every  well-ordered  library,  there  was  the 
bull-lip  of  that  very  uncle  of  his  who  had  had  the 
misfortune  with  the  signature  of  a  gentleman's 
will,  and  had  been  transported  for  life  in  conse- 
quence. 

To  think  how  he  himself,  too,  had  sinned  in 
this  same  matter  of  a  will  for  this  mere  fleshly 
reproduction  of  a  wretched  old  uncle  whose  very 
name  he  wished  to  forget !  The  boy's  Christian 
name,  even,  was  an  imposture  and  an  irony,  for  it 
implied  hereditary  force  and  brilliancy  to  which 
he  plainly  would  never  attain.  The  consolation 
of  real  sonship  was  always  left  him  certainly;  but 
he  could  not  help  groaning   to   himself,  "  Why 


SQUIRE    PETRICK's   LADY.  205 

cannot  a  son  be  one's  own  and  somebody  else's 
likewise  ?" 

The  Marquis  was  shortly  afterwards  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Stapleford,  and  Timothy  Petrick 
met  him,  and  eyed  his  noble  countenance  admir- 
ingly. The  next  day,  when  Petrick  was  in  his 
study,  somebody  knocked  at  the  door. 

"  Who's  there  ?" 

"  Rupert." 

"  ril  Rupert  thee,  you  young  impostor !  Say, 
only  a  poor  commonplace  Petrick  !"  his  father 
grunted.  "  Why  didn't  you  have  a  voice  like  the 
Marquis  I  saw  yesterday?"  he  continued,  as  the 
lad  came  in.  "  Why  haven't  you  his  looks,  and 
a  way  of  commanding  as  if  you'd  done  it  for  cen- 
turies— hey  ?" 

"  Why  ?  How  can  you  expect  it,  father,  when 
I'm  not  related  to  him?" 

'*  Ugh  !  Then  you  ought  to  be  !"  growled  his 
father. 

As  the  narrator  paused,  the  surgeon,  the  colo- 
nel, the  historian,  the  Spark,  and  others  exclaimed 
that  such  subtle  and  instructive  psychological 
studies  as  this  (now  that  psychology  was  so  much 
in  demand)  were  precisely  the  tales  they  desired, 
as  members  of  a  scientific  club,  and  begged  the 
master-maltster  to  tell  another  curious  mental  de- 
lusion. 

Tlie  maltster  shook  his  head,  and  feared  he  was 
not  genteel  enough  to  tell  another  story  with  a 


206  A    GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

sufficiently  moral  tone  to  it  to  suit  the  club ;  he 
would  prefer  to  leave  the  next  to  a  better  man. 

The  colonel  had  fallen  into  reflection.  True 
it  was,  he  observed,  that  the  more  dreamy  and 
impulsive  nature  of  woman  engendered  within 
her  erratic  fancies,  which  often  started  her  on 
strange  tracks,  only  to  abandon  them  in  sharp 
revulsion  at  the  dictates  of  her  common-sense — 
sometimes  with  ludicrous  effect.  Events  which 
had  caused  a  lady's  action  to  set  in  a  particular 
direction  might  continue  to  enforce  the  same  line 
of  conduct,  while  she,  like  a  mangle,  would  start 
on  a  sudden  in  a  contrary  course,  and  end  where 
she  began. 

The  vice-president  laughed,  and  applauded 
the  colonel,  adding  that  there  surely  lurked  a 
story  somewhere  behind  that  sentiment,  if  he 
were  not  much  mistaken. 

The  colonel  fixed  his  face  to  a  good  narrative 
pose,  and  went  on  without  further  preamble. 


DAME  THE  SEVENTH. 

anna,  XaD^  Bajby* 

BY  THE  COLONEL. 

It  was  in  the  time  of  the  great  Civil  War — if 
I  should  not  rather,  as  a  loyal  subject,  call  it,  with 
Clarendon,  the  Great  Rebellion.  It  was,  I  say,  at 
that  unhappy  period  of  our  history,  that  towards 
the  autumn  of  a  particular  year,  the  Parliament 
forces  sat  down  before  Sherton  Castle  with  over 
seven  thousand  foot  and  four  pieces  of  cannon. 
The  Castle,  as  we  all  know,  was  in  that  century 
owned  and  occupied  by  one  of  the  Earls  of  Severn, 
and  garrisoned  for  his  assistance  by  a  certain  no- 
ble Marquis  who  commanded  the  King's  troops  in 
these  parts.  The  said  Earl,  as  well  as  the  young 
Lord  Baxby,  his  eldest  son,  were  away  from  home 
just  now,  raising  forces  for  the  King  elsewhere. 
But  there  were  present  in  the  Castle,  Avhen  the 
besiegers  arrived  before  it,  the  son's  fair  wife. 
Lady  Baxby,  and  her  servants,  together  with 
some  friends  and  near  relatives  of  her  husband ; 


208  A   GEOUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

and  the  defence  was  so  good  and  well-considered 
that  they  anticipated  no  great  danger. 

The  Parliamentary  forces  were  also  commanded 
by  a  noble  lord  —  for  the  nobility  were  by  no 
means,  at  this  stage  of  the  war,  all  on  the  King's 
side — and  it  had  been  observed  during  his  ap- 
proach in  the  night-time,  and  in  the  morning  when 
the  reconnoitring  took  place,  that  he  appeared  sad 
and  much  depressed.  The  truth  was  that,  by  a 
strange  freak  of  destiny,  it  had  come  to  pass  that 
the  stronghold  he  was  set  to  reduce  was  the  home 
of  his  own  sister,  whom  he  had  tenderly  loved 
during  her  maidenhood,  and  whom  he  loved  now, 
in  spite  of  the  estrangement  which  had  resulted 
from  hostilities  with  her  husband's  family.  He 
believed,  too,  that,  notwithstanding  this  cruel  di- 
vision, she  still  was  sincerely  attached  to  him. 

His  hesitation  to  point  his  ordnance  at  the  walls 
was  inexplicable  to  those  who  were  strangers  to 
his  family  history.  He  remained  in  the  field  on 
the  north  side  of  the  Castle  (called  by  his  name  to 
this  day  because  of  his  encampment  there)  till  it 
occurred  to  him  to  send  a  messenger  to  his  sister 
Anna  with  a  letter,  in  which  he  earnestly  request- 
ed her,  as  she  valued  her  life,  to  steal  out  of  the 
place  by  the  little  gate  to  the  south,  and  make 
away  in  that  direction  to  the  residence  of  some 
friends. 

Shortly  after  be  saw,  to  his  great  surprise,  com- 
ing from  the  front  of  the  Castle  walls  a  lady  on 
horseback,  with    a  single   attendant.     She    rode 


ANNA,    LADY   BAXBY.  209 

straight  forward  into  the  field,  and  up  the  slope 
to  where  his  army  and  tents  were  spread.  It  was 
not  till  she  got  quite  near  that  he  discerned  her  to 
be  his  sister  Anna ;  and  much  was  he  alarmed  that 
she  should  have  run  such  risk  as  to  sally  out  in 
the  face  of  his  forces  without  knowledge  of  their 
proceedings,  when  at  any  moment  their  first  dis- 
charge might  have  burst  forth,  to  her  own  de- 
struction in  such  exposure.  She  dismounted  be- 
fore she  was  quite  close  to  hira,  and  he  saw  that 
her  familiar  face,  though  pale,  was  not  at  all  tear- 
ful, as  it  would  have  been  in  their  younger  days. 
Indeed,  if  the  particulars  as  handed  down  are  to 
be  believed,  he  was  in  a  more  tearful  state  than 
she,  in  his  anxiety  about  her.  He  called  her  into 
his  tent,  out  of  the  gaze  of  those  around  ;  for 
though  many  of  the  soldiers  were  honest  and  se- 
rious-minded men,  he  could  not  bear  that  she  who 
had  been  his  dear  companion  in  childhood  should 
be  exposed  to  curious  observation  in  this  her  great 
grief. 

When  they  were  alone  in  the  tent  he  clasped 
her  in  his  arms,  for  he  had  not  seen  her  since  those 
happier  days,  when,  at  the  commencement  of  the 
war,  her  husband  and  himself  had  been  of  the 
same  mind  about  the  arbitrary  conduct  of  the 
King,  and  had  little  dreamed  that  they  would  not 
go  to  extremes  together.  She  was  the  calmest 
of  the  two,  it  is  said,  and  was  the  first  to  speak 
connectedly. 

"  William,  I  have  come  to  you,"  said  she,  "  but 
14 


210  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

not  to  save  myself,  as  you  suppose.  Why,  oh, 
why  do  you  persist  in  supporting  this  disloyal 
cause,  and  grieving  us  so  ?" 

"  Say  not  that,"  he  replied,  hastily.  "  If  truth 
hides  at  the  bottom  of  a  well,  why  should  you 
suppose  justice  to  be  in  high  places?  I  am  for 
the  right,  at  any  price.  Anna,  leave  the  Castle  ; 
you  are  my  sister;  come  away,  my  dear,  and  save 
thy  life !" 

*'  Never !"  says  she.  "  Do  you  plan  to  carry  out 
this  attack,  and  level  the  Castle  indeed  ?" 

"  Most  certainly  I  do,"  says  he.  "  What  mean- 
eth  this  army  around  us  if  not  so  ?" 

"Then  you  will  find  the  bones  of  your  sister 
buried  in  the  ruins  you  cause!"  said  she.  And 
without  another  word  she  turned  and  left  him. 

"Anna — abide  with  me !"  he  entreated.  "  Blood 
is  thicker  than  water,  and  what  is  there  in  com- 
mon between  you  and  your  husband  now  ?" 

But  she  shook  her  head  and  would  not  hear 
him;  and  hastening  out,  mounted  her  horse,  and 
returned  towards  the  Castle  as  she  had  come.  Aye, 
many's  the  time  when  I  have  been  riding  to 
hounds  across  that  field  have  I  thought  of  that 
scene ! 

When  she  had  quite  gone  down  the  field,  and 
over  the  intervening  ground,  and  round  the  bast- 
ion, so  that  he  could  no  longer  even  see  the  tip 
of  her  mare's  white  tail,  he  was  much  more  deeply 
moved  by  emotions  concerning  her  and  her  wel- 
fare than  he  had  been  while  she  was  before  him. 


ANNA,  LADY   BAXBY.  211 

He  wildly  reproached  himself  that  he  had  not  de- 
tained her  by  force  for  her  own  good,  so  that, 
come  what  might,  she  would  be  under  his  protec- 
tion and  not  under  that  of  her  husband,  whose  im- 
pulsive nature  rendered  him  too  open  to  instanta- 
neous impressions  and  sudden  changes  of  plan ; 
he  was  now  acting  in  this  cause  and  now  in  that, 
and  lacked  the  cool  judgment  necessary  for  the 
protection  of  a  woman  in  these  troubled  times. 
Her  brother  thought  of  her  words  again  and 
again,  and  sighed,  and  even  considered  if  a  sister 
were  not  of  more  value  than  a  principle,  and  if  he 
would  not  have  acted  more  naturally  in  throwing 
in  his  lot  with  hers. 

The  delay  of  the  besiegers  in  attacking  the  Cas- 
tle was  said  to  be  entirely  owing  to  this  distrac- 
tion on  the  part  of  their  leader,  who  remained  on 
the  spot  attempting  some  indecisive  operations, 
and  parleying  with  the  Marquis,  then  in  command, 
with  far  inferior  forces,  within  the  Castle.  It 
never  occurred  to  him  that  in  the  mean  time  the 
young  Lady  Baxby,  his  sister,  was  in  much  the 
same  mood  as  himself.  Her  brother's  familiar 
voice  and  eyes,  much  worn  and  fatigued  by  keep- 
ing the  field,  and  by  family  distractions  on  ac- 
count of  this  unhappy  feud,  rose  upon  her  vision 
all  the  afternoon,  and  as  day  waned  she  grew 
more  and  more  Parliamentarian  in  her  principles, 
though  the  only  arguments  which  had  addressed 
themselves  to  her  were  those  of  family  ties. 

Her  husband,  General  Lord  Baxby,  had  been 


212  A   GROUP   OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

expected  to  return  all  the  day  from  his  excursion 
into  the  east  of  the  county,  a  message  having  been 
sent  to  him  informing  him  of  what  had  happened 
at  home ;  and  in  the  evening  he  arrived  with  re- 
inforcements in  unexpected  numbers.    Her  brother 
retreated  before  these  to  a  hill  near  Ivell,  four  or 
five  miles  off,  to  afford  the  men  and  himself  some 
repose.     Lord  Baxby  duly  placed  his  forces,  and 
there  was  no  longer  any  immediate  danger.     By 
this  time  Lady  Baxby's  feelings  were  more  Parlia- 
mentarian than  ever,  and  in  her  fancy  the  fagged 
countenance  of  her  brother,  beaten  back  by  her 
husband,  seemed   to  reproach  her  for  heartless- 
ness.     When  her  husband  entered  her  apartment, 
ruddy  and  boisterous   and  full  of  hope,  she  re- 
ceived him  but  sadly;  and  upon  his  casually  ut- 
tering some  slighting  words  about  her  brother's 
withdrawal,  which  seemed  to  convey  an  imputa- 
tion upon  his  courage,  she  resented  them,  and  re- 
torted that   he,  Lord   Baxby  himself,  had  been 
against  the  Court-party  at  first,  where  it  would 
be  much  more  to  his  credit  if  he  were  at  present, 
and  showing  her  brother's  consistency  of  opinion, 
instead  of  supporting  the  lying  policy  of  the  King 
(as  she  called  it)  for  the  sake  of  a  barren  principle 
of  loyalty,  which  was  but  an  empty  expression 
when  a  king  was  not  at  one  with  his  people.     The 
dissension  grew  bitter  between  them,  reaching  to 
little  less  than  a  hot  quarrel,  both  being  quick- 
tempered souls. 
Lord  Baxby  was  weary  with   his  long  day's 


ANNA,  LADY    BAXBY.  213 

march  and  other  excitements,  and  soon  retired  to 
bed.  His  lady  followed  some  time  after.  Her 
husband  slept  profoundly,  but  not  so  she ;  she  sat 
brooding  by  the  window-slit,  and  lifting  the  cur- 
tain looked  forth  upon  the  hills  without. 

In  the  silence  between  the  footfalls  of  the  sen- 
tinels she  could  hear  faint  sounds  of  her  brother's 
camp  on  the  distant  hills,  where  the  soldiery  had 
hardly  settled  as  yet  into  their  bivouac  since  their 
evening's  retreat.  The  first  frosts  of  autumn  had 
touched  the  grass,  and  shrivelled  the  more  delicate 
leaves  of  the  creepers  ;  and  she  thought  of  Will- 
iam sleeping  on  the  chilly  ground,  under  the  strain 
of  these  hardships.  Tears  flooded  her  eyes  as  she 
returned  to  her  husband's  imputations  upon  his 
courage,  as  if  there  could  be  any  doubt  of  Lord 
William's  courage  after  what  he  had  done  in  the 
jjast  days. 

Lord  Baxby's  long  and  reposeful  breathings  in 
his  comfortable  bed  vexed  her  now,  and  she  came 
to  a  determination  on  an  impulse.  Hastily  light- 
ing a  taper,  she  wrote  on  a  scrap  of  paper : 

^^Blood  is  tJiiclcer  than  water,  dear  William — / 
loill  cotne  f  and  with  this  in  her  hand,  she  Avent 
to  the  door  of  the  room,  and  out  upon  the  stairs ; 
on  second  thoughts  turning  back  for  a  moment, 
to  put  on  her  husband's  hat  and  cloak — not  the 
one  he  was  daily  wearing — that  if  seen  in  the  twi- 
light she  might  at  a  casual  glance  appear  as  some 
lad  or  hanger-on  of  one  of  the  household  women; 

thus  accoutred  she  descended  a  flight  of  circular 
p 


214        A  GKOUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

Btairs,  at  the  bottom  of  which  was  a  door  opening 
upon  the  terrace  towards  the  west,  in  the  direction 
of  her  brother's  position.  Her  object  was  to  slip 
out  without  the  sentry  seeing  her,  get  to  the  sta- 
bles, arouse  one  of  the  varlets,  and  send  him  ahead 
of  her  along  the  highway  with  the  note  to  warn 
her  brother  of  her  approach  to  throw  in  her  lot 
with  his. 

She  was  still  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall  on  the 
west  terrace,  waiting  for  the  sentinel  to  be  quite 
out  of  the  way,  when  her  ears  were  greeted  by  a 
voice,  saying,  from  the  adjoining  shade  : 

"  Here  I  be !" 

The  tones  were  the  tones  of  a  woman.  Lady 
Baxby  made  no  reply,  and  stood  close  to  the  wall. 

"  My  Lord  Baxby,"  the  voice  continued ;  and 
she  could  recognize  in  it  the  local  accent  of  some 
girl  from  the  little  town  of  Sherton,  close  at  hand. 
"  I  be  tired  of  waiting,  my  dear  Lord  Baxby  !  I 
was  afeard  you  would  never  come  !" 

Lady  Baxby  flushed  hot  to  her  toes. 

"  How  the  wench  loves  him !"  she  said  to  her- 
self, reasoning  from  the  tones  of  her  voice,  which 
were  plaintive  and  sweet  and  tender  as  a  bird's. 
She  changed  from  the  home-hating  truant  to  the 
strategic  wife  in  one  moment. 

"Hist!"  she  said. 

"  My  lord,  you  told  me  ten  o'clock,  and  'tis  near 
twelve  now,"  continues  the  other.  "  How  could 
ye  keep  me  waiting  so  if  you  love  me  as  you 
said?     I  should  have  stuck  to  my  lover  in  the 


ANNA,   LADY    BAXBY.  215 

Parliament  troops  if  it  had  not  been  for  thee,  my 
dear  lord  !" 

There  was  not  the  least  doubt  that  Lady  Baxby 
had  been  mistaken  for  her  husband  by  this  in- 
triguing damsel.  Here  was  a  pretty  underhand 
business  !  Here  were  sly  manoeuvrings !  Here 
was  faithlessness!  Here  was  a  precious  assigna- 
tion surprised  in  the  midst!  Her  wicked  husband, 
whom  till  this  very  moment  she  had  ever  deemed 
the  soul  of  good  faith — how  could  he ! 

Lady  Baxby  precipitately  retreated  to  the  door 
in  the  turret,  closed  it,  locked  it,  and  ascended  one 
round  of  the  staircase,  where  there  was  a  loop-hole. 
"  I  am  not  coming !  I,  Lord  Baxby,  despise  ye 
and  all  your  wanton  tribe  !"  she  hissed  through  the 
opening ;  and  then  crept  up-stairs,  as  firmly  rooted 
in  Royalist  principles  as  any  man  in  the  Castle. 

Her  husband  still  slept  the  sleep  of  the  weary, 
well-fed,  and  well-drunken,  if  not  of  the  just;  and 
Lady  Baxby  quickly  disrobed  herself  without  as- 
sistance— being,  indeed,  supposed  by  her  woman 
to  have  retired  to  rest  long  ago.  Before  lying 
down,  she  noiselessly  locked  the  door  and  placed 
the  key  under  her  pillow.  More  than  that,  she  got 
a  staylace,  and,  creeping  up  to  her  lord,  in  great 
stealth  tied  the  lace  in  a  tight  knot  to  one  of  his 
long  locks  of  hair,  attaching  the  other  end  of  the 
lace  to  the  bedpost ;  for,  being  tired  herself  now, 
she  feared  she  might  sleep  heavily ;  and,  if  her 
husband  should  wake,  this  would  be  a  delicate 
hint  that  she  had  discovered  all. 


216  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

It  is  added  that,  to  make  assurance  trebly  sure, 
her  gentle  ladyship,  when  she  had  lain  down  to 
rest,  held  her  lord's  hand  in  her  own  during  the 
whole  of  the  night.  But  this  is  old-wives'  gossip, 
and  not  corroborated.  What  Lord  Baxby  thought 
and  said  when  he  awoke  the  next  morning  and 
found  himself  so  strangely  tethered,  is  likewise 
only  matter  of  conjecture ;  though  there  is  no  rea- 
son to  suppose  that  his  rage  was  great.  The  ex- 
tent of  his  culpability  as  regards  the  intrigue  was 
this  much:  that,  while  halting  at  a  cross-road  near 
Sherton  that  day,  he  had  flirted  with  a  pretty 
young  woman,  who  seemed  nothing  loath,  and  had 
invited  her  to  the  Castle  terrace  after  dark — an 
invitation  which  he  quite  forgot  on  his  arrival 
home. 

The  subsequent  relations  of  Lord  and  Lady 
Baxby  were  not  again  greatly  imbittered  by  quar- 
rels, so  far  as  is  known  ;  though  the  husband's 
conduct  in  later  life  was  occasionally  eccentric, 
and  the  vicissitudes  of  his  public  career  culmi- 
nated in  long  exile.  The  siege  of  the  Castle  was 
not  regularly  undertaken  till  two  or  three  years 
later  than  the  time  I  have  been  describing,  when 
Lady  Baxby  and  all  the  women  therein,  except 
the  wife  of  the  then  governor,  had  been  removed 
to  safe  distance.  That  memorable  siege  of  fifteen 
days  by  Fairfax,  and  the  surrender  of  the  old 
place  on  an  August  evening,  is  matter  of  history, 
and  need  not  be  told  by  me. 


ANNA,  LADY    BAXBT.  217 

The  man  of  family  spoke  approvingly  across 
to  the  colonel  when  the  Club  had  done  smiling, 
declaring  that  the  story  was  an  absolutely  faithful 
page  of  history,  as  he  had  good  reason  to  know, 
his  own  people  having  been  engaged  in  that  well- 
known  scrimmage.  He  asked  if  the  colonel  had 
ever  heard  the  equally  well-authenticated  though 
less  martial  tale  of  a  certain  Lady  Penelope,  who 
lived  in  the  same  century,  and  not  a  score  of  miles 
from  the  same  place  ? 

The  colonel  had  not  heard  it,  nor  had  anybody 
except  the  local  historian ;  and  the  inquirer  was 
induced  to  proceed  forthwith. 


DAME  THE  EIGHTH. 

XTbe  XaD^  Penelope. 

BY  THE  MAN  OF  FAMILY. 

In  going  out  of  Casterbridge  by  the  low-lying 
road  which  eventually  conducts  to  the  town  of 
Ivell,  you  see  on  the  right  hand  an  ivied  manor- 
house,  flanked  by  battlemented  towers,  and  more 
than  usually  distinguished  by  the  size  of  its  many 
mullioned  windows.  Though  still  of  good  capac- 
ity, the  building  is  much  reduced  from  its  original 
grand  proportions ;  it  has,  moreover,  been  shorn 
of  the  fair  estate  which  once  appertained  to  its 
lord,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  acres  of  park- 
land immediately  around  the  mansion.  This  was 
formerly  the  seat  of  the  ancient  and  knightly 
family  of  the  Drenghards,  or  Drenkhards,  now 
extinct  in  the  male  line,  whose  name,  according 
to  the  local  chronicles,  was  interpreted  to  mean 
Strenuus  Miles,  vel  Potator,  though  certain  mem- 
bers of  the  family  were  averse  to  the  latter  signi- 
fication, and  a  duel  was  fought  by  one  of  them  on 


\ 


THE   LADY   PENELOPE.  21^ 

that  account,  as  is  well  known.     With  this,  how- 
ever, we  are  not  now  concerned. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  reign  of  the  first  King 
James,  there  was  visiting  near  this  place  of  the 
Drenghards  a  lady  of  noble  family  and  extraor- 
dinary beauty.  She  was  of  the  purest  descent ; 
ah,  tliere's  seldom  such  blood  nowadays  as  hers ! 
She  possessed  no  great  wealth,  it  was  said,  but 
was  sufficiently  endowed.  Her  beauty  was  so  per- 
fect, and  her  manner  so  entrancing,  that  suitors 
seemed  to  spring  out  of  the  ground  wherever  she 
went,  a  sufficient  cause  of  anxiety  to  the  Countess 
her  mother,  her  only  living  parent.  Of  these  there 
were  three  in  particular,  whom  neither  her  moth- 
er's complaints  of  prematurity,  nor  the  ready 
raillery  of  the  maiden  herself,  could  effectually 
put  off.  The  said  gallants  were  a  certain  Sir  John 
Gale,  a  Sir  William  Hervy,  and  the  well-known 
Sir  George  Drenghard,  one  of  the  Drenghard 
family  before  mentioned.  They  had,  curiously 
enough,  all  been  equally  honored  with  the  distinc- 
tion of  knighthood,  and  their  schemes  for  seeing 
her  were  manifold,  each  fearing  that  one  of  the 
others  would  steal  a  march  over  himself.  Not 
content  with  calling,  on  every  imaginable  excuse, 
at  the  house  of  the  relative  with  whom  she  so- 
journed, they  intercepted  her  in  rides  and  in  walks ; 
and  if  any  one  of  them  chanced  to  surprise  an- 
other in  the  act  of  paying  her  marked  attentions, 
the  encounter  often  ended  in  an  altercation  of 
great  violence.    So  heated  and  impassioned,  in- 


220        A  GROUP  OP  NOBLE  DAMES. 

deed,  would  they  become,  that  the  lady  hardly 
felt  herself  safe  in  their  company  at  such  times, 
notwithstanding  that  she  was  a  brave  and  buxom 
damsel,  not  easily  put  out,  and  with  a  daring  spirit 
of  humor  in  her  composition,  if  not  of  coquetry. 

At  one  of  these  altercations,  which  had  taken 
place  in  her  relative's  grounds,  and  was  unusually 
bitter,  threatening  to  result  in  a  duel,  she  found  it 
necessary  to  assert  herself.  Turning  haughtily 
upon  the  pair  of  disputants,  she  declared  that 
whichever  should  be  the  first  to  break  the  peace 
between  them,  no  matter  what  the  provocation, 
that  man  should  never  be  admitted  to  her  presence 
again  ;  and  thus  would  she  effectually  stultify  the 
aggressor  by  making  the  promotion  of  a  quarrel 
a  distinct  bar  to  its  object. 

While  the  two  knights  were  wearing  rather  a 
crestfallen  appearance  at  her  reprimand,  the  third, 
never  far  off,  came  upon  the  scene,  and  she  re- 
peated her  caveat  to  him  also.  Seeing,  then,  how 
great  was  the  concern  of  all  at  her  peremptory 
mood,  the  lady's  manner  softened,  as  she  said,  with 
a  roguish  smile : 

"Have  patience,  have  patience,  you  foolish 
men !  Only  bide  your  time  quietly,  and,  in  faith, 
I  will  marry  you  all  in  turn !" 

They  laughed  heartily  at  this  sally,  all  three  to- 
gether, as  though  they  were  the  best  of  friends ; 
at  which  she  blushed  and  showed  some  embar- 
rassment, not  having  realized  that  her  arch  jest 
would  have  sounded  so  strange  when  uttered, 


THE    LADY   PENELOPE.  221 

The  meeting  which  resulted  thus,  however,  had 
its  good  effect  in  checking  the  bitterness  of  their 
rivahy ;  and  they  repeated  her  speech  to  their 
relatives  and  acquaintance  with  a  hilarious  fre- 
quency and  publicity  that  the  lady  little  divined, 
or  she  might  have  blushed  and  felt  more  embar- 
rassment still. 

In  the  course  of  time  the  position  resolved  it- 
self, and  the  beauteous  Lady  Penelope  (as  she  was 
called)  made  up  her  mind,  her  choice  being  the 
eldest  of  the  three  knights,  Sir  George  Drenghard, 
owner  of  the  mansion  aforesaid,  which  thereup- 
on became  her  home  ;  and  her  liusband  being  a 
pleasant  man,  and  his  family,  though  not  so  noble, 
of  as  good  repute  as  her  own,  all  things  seemed  to 
show  that  she  had  reckoned  wisely  in  honoring 
him  with  her  preference. 

But  wliat  may  lie  behind  the  still  and  silent 
veil  of  the  future  none  can  foretell.  In  the  course 
of  a  few  months  the  husband  of  her  choice  died 
of  his  convivialities  (as  if,  indeed,  to  bear  out  his 
name),  and  the  Lady  Penelope  was  left  alone  as 
mistress  of  his  house.  By  this  time  she  had  ap- 
parently quite  forgotten  her  careless  declaration 
to  her  lovers  collectively  ;  but  the  lovers  tliem- 
selvcs  had  not  forgotten  it ;  and,  as  she  would 
now  be  free  to  take  a  second  one  of  them.  Sir  Joliu 
Gale  appeared  at  her  door  as  early  in  the  widow- 
hood a8  it  was  proper  and  seemly  to  do  so. 

She  gave  him  little  encouragement ;  for,  of  the 
two  remaining,  her  best  beloved  was  Sir  William, 


222  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

of  whom,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  she  had  often 
thought  during  her  short  married  life.  But  he 
had  not  yet  reappeared.  Her  heart  began  to  be 
so  much  with  him  now  that  she  contrived  to  con- 
vey to  him,  by  indirect  hints  through  his  friends, 
that  she  would  not  be  displeased  by  a  renewal 
of  his  former  attentions.  Sir  William,  however, 
misapprehended  her  gentle  signalling,  and  from 
excellent  though  mistaken  motives  of  delicacy, 
delayed  to  intrude  himself  upon  her  for  a  long 
time.  Meanwhile  Sir  John,  now  created  a  bar- 
onet, was  unremitting,  and  she  began  to  grow 
somewhat  piqued  at  the  backwardness  of  him  she 
secretly  desired  to  be  forward. 

"  Never  mind,"  her  friends  said  jestingly  to  her 
(knowing  of  her  humorous  remark,  as  everybody 
did,  that  she  would  marry  them  all  three  if  they 
would  have  patience) — "never  mind  ;  why  hesi- 
tate upon  the  order  of  them  ?  Take  'em  as  they 
come." 

This  vexed  her  still  more,  and  regretting  deeply, 
as  she  had  often  done,  that  such  a  careless  speech 
should  ever  have  passed  her  lips,  she  fairly  broke 
down  under  Sir  John's  importunity,  and  accepted 
his  hand.  They  were  married  on  a  fine  spring 
morning,  about  the  very  time  at  which  the  unfort- 
unate Sir  William  discovered  her  preference  for 
him,  and  was  beginning  to  hasten  home  from  a 
foreign  court  to  declare  his  unaltered  devotion  to 
her.  On  his  arrival  in  England  he  learned  the  sad 
truth. 


THE   LADY   PENELOPE.  223 

If  Sir  William  suffered  at  her  precipitancy  un- 
der what  she  had  deemed  his  neglect,  the  Lady- 
Penelope  herself  suffered  more.  She  had  not  long 
been  the  wife  of  Sir  John  Gale  before  he  showed 
a  disposition  to  retaliate  upon  her  for  the  trouble 
and  delay  she  had  put  him  to  in  winning  her. 
With  increasing  frequency  he  would  tell  her  that, 
as  far  as  he  could  perceive,  she  was  an  article  not 
worth  such  labor  as  he  had  bestowed  in  obtaining 
it,  and  such  snubbings  as  he  had  taken  from  his 
rivals  on  the  same  account.  These  and  other  cruel 
things  he  repeated  till  he  made  the  lady  weep 
sorely,  and  wellnigh  broke  her  spirit,  though  she 
had  formerly  been  such  a  mettlesome  dame.  By 
degrees  it  became  perceptible  to  all  her  friends 
that  her  life  was  a  very  unhappy  one  ;  and  the  fate 
of  the  fair  woman  seemed  yet  the  harder  in  that 
it  was  her  own  stately  mansion,  left  to  her  sole  use 
by  her  first  husband,  which  her  second  had  en- 
tered into  and  was  enjoying,  his  being  but  a  mean 
and  meagre  erection. 

But  such  is  the  flippancy  of  friends  that  when 
she  met  them,  and  secretly  confided  her  grief  to 
their  ears,  they  would  say,  cheerily,  "  Lord,  never 
mind,  my  dear  ;  there's  a  third  to  come  yet !" — at 
which  maladroit  remark  she  would  show  much 
indignation,  and  tell  them  they  should  know  bet- 
ter than  to  trifle  on  so  solemn  a  theme.  Yet  that 
the  poor  lady  would  have  been  only  too  happy  to 
be  the  wife  of  the  third,  instead  of  Sir  John  whom 
she  had  taken,  was  painfully  obvious,  and  much 


224        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

she  was  blamed  for  her  foolish  choice  by  some 
people.  Sir  William,  however,  had  returned  to 
foreign  cities  on  learning  the  news  of  her  mar- 
riage, and  had  never  been  heard  of  since. 

Two  or  three  years  of  suffering  were  passed  by 
Lady  Penelope  as  the  despised  and  chidden  wife 
of  this  man  Sir  John,  amid  regrets  that  she  had 
so  greatly  mistaken  him,  and  sighs  for  one  whom 
she  thought  never  to  see  again,  till  it  chanced  that 
her  husband  fell  sick  of  some  slight  ailment.  One 
day  after  this,  when  she  was  sitting  in  his  room, 
looking  from  the  window  upon  the  expanse  in 
front,  she  beheld,  approaching  the  house  on  foot, 
a  form  she  seemed  to  know  well.  Lady  Penelope 
withdrew  silently  fi-om  the  sick-room,  and  de- 
scended to  the  hall,  whence,  through  the  door-way, 
she  saw  entering  between  the  two  round  towers, 
which  at  that  time  flanked  the  gate-way,  Sir  Will- 
iam Hervy,  as  she  had  surmised,  but  looking  thin 
and  travel -worn.  She  advanced  into  the  court- 
yard to  meet  him. 

"  I  was  passing  through  Casterbridge,"  he  said, 
with  faltering  deference,  "  and  I  walked  out  to  ask 
after  your  ladyship's  health.  I  felt  that  I  could 
do  no  less ;  and,  of  course,  to  pay  my  respects  to 
your  good  husband,  ray  heretofore  acquaintance. 
.  .  .  But  oh,  Penelope,  th'st  look  sick  and  sorry!" 

"  I  am  heart-sick,  that's  all,"  said  she. 

They  could  see  in  each  other  an  emotion  which 
neither  wished  to  express,  and  they  stood  thus  a 
long  time  with  tears  in  their  eyes. 


THE   LADY   PENELOPE.  225 

"  He  does  not  treat  'ee  well,  I  hear,"  said  Sir 
William,  in  a  low  voice.  "  May  God  in  heaven 
forgive  him  ;  but  it  is  asking  a  great  deal !" 

"  Hush,  hush  !"  said  she,  hastily. 

"  Nay,  but  I  will  speak  what  I  may  honestly 
say,"  he  answered.  "I  am  not  under  your  roof, 
and  my  tongue  is  free.  Why  didst  not  wait  for 
me,  Penelope,  or  send  to  me  a  more  overt  letter  ? 
I  would  have  travelled  night  and  day  to  come !" 

"  Too  late,  William  ;  you  must  not  ask  it,"  said 
she,  endeavoring  to  quiet  him  as  in  old  times. 
"  My  husband  just  now  is  unwell.  He  will  grow 
better  in  a  day  or  two,  maybe.  You  must  call 
again  and  see  him  before  you  leave  Casterbridge." 

As  she  said  this  their  eyes  met.  Each  was 
thinking  of  her  lightsome  words  about  taking  the 
three  men  in  turn  ;  each  thought  that  two-thirds 
of  that  promise  had  been  fulfilled.  But,  as  if  it 
were  unpleasant  to  her  that  tliis  recollection  should 
have  arisen,  she  spoke  again  quickly :  "  Come 
again  in  a  day  or  two,  when  my  husband  will  be 
well  enough  to  see  you." 

Sir  William  departed  without  entering  the 
house,  and  she  returned  to  Sir  John's  chamber. 
He,  rising  from  his  pillow,  said,  "To  whom  hast 
been  talking,  wife,  in  the  court -yard?  I  heard 
voices  there." 

She  hesitated,  and  he  repeated  the  question  more 
impatiently. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  tell  you  now,"  said  she. 

"But  I  wool!  know  !"  said  he. 
U  .. 


226        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

Then  she  answered,  "  Sir  William  Hervy." 

"By  G — ,  I  thought  as  much !"  cried  Sir  John, 
drops  of  perspiration  standing  on  his  white  face. 
"A  skulking  villain!  A  sick  man's  ears  are  keen, 
my  lady.  I  heard  that  they  were  lover-like  tones, 
and  he  called  'ee  by  your  Christian  name.  These 
be  your  intrigues,  my  lady,  when  I  am  off  my 
legs  a  while !" 

"  On  my  honor,"  cried  she,  "  you  do  me  a  wrong. 
I  swear  I  did  not  know  of  his  coming!" 

"  Swear  as  you  will,"  said  Sir  John,  "  I  don't 
believe  'ee."  And  with  this  he  taunted  her,  and 
worked  himself  into  a  greater  passion,  which 
much  increased  his  illness.  His  lady  sat  still, 
brooding.  There  was  that  upon  her  face  which 
had  seldom  been  there  since  her  marriage;  and 
she  seemed  to  think  anew  of  what  she  had  so 
lightly  said  in  the  days  of  her  freedom,  when  her 
three  lovers  were  one  and  all  coveting  her  hand. 
"  I  began  at  the  wrong  end  of  ^em,"  she  mur- 
mured.    "  My  God— that  did  I !" 

"What?"  said  he. 

"  A  trifle,"  said  she.    "  I  spoke  to  myself  only." 

It  was  somewhat  strange  that  after  this  day, 
while  she  went  about  the  house  with  even  a  sad- 
der face  than  usual,  her  churlish  husband  grew 
worse ;  and  what  was  more,  to  the  surprise  of  all, 
though  to  the  regret  of  few,  he  died  a  fortnight 
later.  Sir  William  had  not  called  upon  him.as  he 
had  promised,  having  received  a  private  commu- 
nication from  Lady  Penelope,  frankly  informing 


THE    LADY    PENELOPE.  227 

him  that  to  do  so  would  be  inadvisable,  by  reason 
of  her  husband's  temper. 

Now  when  Sir  John  was  gone,  and  his  remains 
carried  to  his  family  burying-place  in  another  part 
of  England,  the  lady  began  in  due  time  to  wonder 
whither  Sir  William  had  betaken  himself.  But 
she  had  been  cured  of  precipitancy  (if  ever  woman 
were),  and  was  prepared  to  wait  her  whole  life- 
time a  widow  if  the  said  Sir  William  should  not 
reappear.  Her  life  was  now  passed  mostly  within 
the  walls,  or  in  promenading  between  the  pleas- 
aunce  and  the  bowling-green;  and  she  very  sel- 
dom went  even  so  far  as  the  high-road,  which 
then  skirted  the  grounds  on  the  north,  tliough  it 
has  now,  and  for  many  years,  been  diverted  to  the 
south  side.  Her  patience  was  rewarded  (if  love  be 
in  any  case  a  reward) ;  for  one  day,  many  months 
after  her  second  husband's  death,  a  messenger  ar- 
rived at  her  gate  with  the  intelligence  that  Sir 
William  Hervy  was  again  in  Casterbridge,  and 
would  be  glad  to  know  if  it  were  her  pleasure 
that  he  should  wait  upon  her. 

It  need  hardly  be  said  that  permission  was  joy- 
fully granted,  and  within  two  hours  her  lover  stood 
before  her,  a  more  thoughtful  man  than  formerly, 
but  in  all  essential  respects  the  same  man,  gener- 
ous, modest  to  diffidence,  and  sincere.  The  re- 
serve which  womanly  decorum  threw  over  her 
manner  was  but  too  obviously  artificial,  and  when 
he  said  "the  ways  of  Providence  are  strange," 
and  added,  after  a  moment,  "  and  merciful  like- 


228  A   GROUP   OF  NOBLE   DAMES. 

wise,"  she  could  not  conceal  her  agitation,  and 
burst  into  tears  upon  his  neck. 

"But  this  is  too  soon,"  she  said,  starting  back. 

"  But  no,"  said  he.  "  You  are  eleven  months 
gone  in  widowhood,  and  it  is  not  as  if  Sir  John 
had  been  a  good  husband  to  you." 

His  visits  grew  pretty  frequent  now,  as  may 
well  be  guessed,  and  in  a  month  or  two  he  began 
to  urge  her  to  an  early  union.  But  she  counselled 
a  little  longer  delay. 

"  Why  ?"  said  he.  "  Surely  I  have  waited  long ! 
Life  is  short ;  we  are  getting  older  every  day,  and 
I  am  the  last  of  the  three." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  lady,  frankly.  "  And  that  is 
why  I  would  not  have  you  hasten.  Our  marriage 
may  seem  so  strange  to  everybody,  after  my  un- 
lucky remark  on  that  occasion  we  know  so  well, 
and  which  so  many  others  know  likewise,  thanks 
to  tale-bearers." 

On  this  representation  he  conceded  a  little  space, 
for  the  sake  of  her  good  name.  But  the  destined 
day  of  their  marriage  at  last  arrived,  and  it  was  a 
gay  time  for  the  villagers  and  all  concerned,  and 
the  bells  in  the  parish  church  rang  from  noon  till 
night.  Thus  at  last  she  was  united  to  the  man 
who  had  loved  her  the  most  tenderly  of  them  all, 
who  but  for  his  reticence  might  perhaps  have 
been  the  first  to  win  her.  Often  did  he  say  to 
himself,  "  How  wondrous  that  her  words  should 
have  been  fulfilled!  Many  a  truth  hath  been 
spoken  in  jest,  but  never  a  more  remarkable  one !" 


THB    LADY   PENELOPE.  229 

The  noble  lady  herself  preferred  not  to  dwell  on 
the  coincidence,  a  certain  shyness,  if  not  shame, 
crossing  her  fair  face  at  any  allusion  thereto. 

But  people  will  have  their  say,  sensitive  souls 
or  none,  and  their  sayings  on  this  third  occasion 
took  a  singular  shape.  "  Surely,"  they  whispered, 
"  there  is  something  more  than  chance  in  this. 
.  .  .  The  death  of  the  first  was  possibly  natural ; 
but  what  of  the  death  of  the  second,  who  ill-used 
her,  and  whom,  loving  the  third  so  desperately, 
she  must  have  wished  out  of  the  way !" 

Then  they  pieced  together  sundry  trivial  inci- 
dents of  Sir  John's  illness,  and  dwelt  upon  the  in- 
dubitable truth  that  he  had  grown  worse  after 
her  lover's  unexpected  visit;  till  a  very  sinister 
theory  was  built  up  as  to  the  hand  she  may  have 
had  in  Sir  John's  premature  demise.  But  noth- 
ing of  this  suspicion  was  said  openly,  for  she  was 
a  lady  of  noble  birth — nobler,  indeed,  than  either 
of  her  husbands — and  what  people  suspected  they 
feared  to  express  in  formal  accusation. 

The  mansion  that  she  occupied  had  been  left 
to  her  for  so  long  a  time  as  she  should  choose  to 
reside  in  it,  and,  having  a  regard  for  the  spot,  she 
had  coaxed  Sir  William  to  remain  there.  But  in 
the  end  it  was  unfortunate ;  for  one  day,  when 
in  the  full  tide  of  his  happiness,  he  was  walking 
among  the  willows  near  the  gardens,  where  he 
overheard  a  conversation  between  some  basket- 
makers  who  were  cutting  the  osiers  for  their  use. 
In  this  fatal  dialogue  the  suspicions  of  the  neigh- 


230  A   GEOUP    OP   J^OBLE    DAMES. 

boring  townsfolk  were  revealed  to  him  for  the 
first  time. 

"  A  cupboard  close  to  his  bed,  and  the  key  in 
her  pocket.     Ah !"  said  one. 

"And  a  blue  phial  therein — h'm!"  said  another. 

"And  spurge  -  laurel  leaves  among  the  hearth- 
ashes.     Oh-oh !"  said  a  third. 

On  his  return  home  Sir  William  seemed  to  have 
aged  years.  But  he  said  nothing ;  indeed,  it  was 
a  thing  impossible.  And  from  that  hour  a  ghastly 
estrangement  began.  She  could  not  understand 
it,  and  simply  waited.  One  day  he  said,  however, 
"  I  must  go  abroad." 

"  Why  ?"  said  she.  "  William,  have  I  offended 
you  ?" 

"  No,"  said  he ;  "  but  I  must  go." 

She  could  coax  little  more  out  of  him,  and  in 
itself  there  was  nothing  unnatural  in  his  depart- 
ure, for  he  had  been  a  wanderer  from  his  youth. 
In  a  few  days  he  started  off,  apparently  quite  an- 
other man  than  he  who  had  rushed  to  her  side  so 
devotedly  a  few  months  before. 

It  is  not  known  when,  or  how,  the  rumors, 
which  were  so  thick  in  the  atmosphere  around 
her,  actually  reached  the  Lady  Penelope's  ears, 
but  that  they  did  reach  her  there  is  no  doubt.  It 
was  impossible  that  they  should  not ;  the  district 
teemed  with  them;  they  rustled  in  the  air  like 
night  birds  of  evil  omen.  Then  a  reason  for  her 
husband's  departure  occurred  to  her  appalled 
mind,  and  a  loss  of  health  became  quickly  ap- 


THE    LADY    PENELOPE.  231 

parent.  She  dwindled  thin  in  the  face,  and  the 
veins  in  her  temples  could  all  be  distinctly  traced. 
An  inner  fire  seemed  to  be  withering  her  away. 
Her  rings  fell  off  her  fingers,  and  her  arms  hung 
like  the  flails  of  the  threshers,  though  they  had 
till  lately  been  so  round  and  so  elastic.  She 
wrote  to  her  husband  repeatedly,  begging  him  to 
return  to  her;  but  he,  being  in  extreme  and  wretch- 
ed doubt — moreover,  knowing  nothing  of  her  ill- 
health,  and  never  suspecting  that  the  rumors  had 
reached  her  also — deemed  absence  best,  and  post- 
poned his  return  a  while,  giving  various  good  rea- 
sons for  his  delay. 

At  length,  however,  when  the  Lady  Penelope 
had  given  birth  to  a  still-born  child,  her  mother, 
the  Countess,  addressed  a  letter  to  Sir  William, 
requesting  him  to  come  back  to  her  if  he  wished 
to  see  her  alive;  since  she  was  wasting  away  of 
some  mysterious  disease,  which  seemed  to  be 
rather  mental  than  physical.  It  was  evident  that 
his  mothei'-in-law  knew  nothing  of  the  secret,  for 
she  lived  at  a  distance ;  but  Sir  William  promptly 
hastened  home,  and  stood  beside  the  bed  of  his 
now  dying  wife. 

"Believe  me,  William,"  she  said,  when  they 
were  alone,  "I  am  innocent — innocent!" 

"Of  what?"  said  he.  "Heaven  forbid  that  I 
should  accuse  you  of  anything!" 

"But  you  do  accuse  me — silently!"  she  gasped. 
"  I  could  not  write  thereon — and  ask  you  to  hear 
me.    It  was  too  much,  too  degrading.    But  would 


232  A    GROUP    OP   NOBLE    DAMES. 

that  I  had  been  less  proud !  They  suspect  me  of 
poisoning  hira,  William !  But,  oh  my  dear  hus- 
band, I  am  innocent  of  that  wicked  crime!  He 
died  naturally.  I  loved  you — too  soon ;  but  that 
was  all!" 

Nothing  availed  to  save  her.  The  worm  had 
gnawed  too  far  into  her  heart  before  Sir  William's 
return  for  anything  to  be  remedial  now ;  and  in  a 
few  weeks  she  breathed  her  last.  After  her  death 
the  people  spoke  louder,  and  her  conduct  became 
a  subject  of  public  discussion.  A  little  later  on, 
the  physician  who  had  attended  the  late  Sir  John 
heard  the  rumor,  and  came  down  from  the  place 
near  London  to  which  he  latterly  had  retired, 
with  the  express  purpose  of  calling  upon  Sir  Will- 
iam Hervy,  now  staying  in  Casterbridge. 

He  stated  that,  at  the  request  of  a  relative  of 
Sir  John's,  who  wished  to  be  assured  on  the  mat- 
ter by  reason  of  its  suddenness,  he  had,  with  the 
assistance  of  a  surgeon,  made  a  private  examina- 
tion of  Sir  John's  body  immediately  after  his  de- 
cease, and  found  that  it  had  resulted  from  purely 
natural  causes.  Nobody  at  this  time  had  breathed 
a  suspicion  of  foul  play,  and  therefore  nothing 
was  said  which  might  afterwards  have  estab- 
lished her  innocence. 

It  being  thus  placed  beyond  doubt  that  this 
beautiful  and  noble  lady  had  been  done  to  death 
by  a  vile  scandal  that  was  wholly  unfounded,  her 
husband  was  stung  with  a  dreadful  remorse  at  the 
share  he  had  taken  in  her  misfortunes,  and  left 


THE   LADY    PENELOPE.  233 

the  country  anew,  this  time  never  to  return  alive. 
He  survived  her  but  a  few  years,  and  his  body  was 
brought  home  and  buried  beside  his  wife's  under 
the  tomb  which  is  still  visible  in  the  i)arish  church. 
Until  lately  there  was  a  good  portrait  of  her,  in 
weeds  for  her  first  husband,  with  a  cross  in  her 
hand,  at  the  ancestral  seat  of  her  family,  where 
she  was  much  pitied,  as  she  deserved  to  be.  Yet 
there  were  some  severe  enough  to  say — and  these 
not  unjust  persons  in  other  respects — that  though 
unquestionably  innocent  of  the  crime  imputed  to 
her,  she  had  shown  an  unseemly  wantonness  in 
contracting  three  marriages  in  such  rapid  succes- 
sion; that  the  untrue  suspicion  might  have  been 
ordered  by  Providence  (who  often  works  indi- 
rectly) as  a  punishment  for  her  self-indulgence. 
Upon  that  point  I  have  no  opinion  to  offer. 


The  reverend  the  vice-president,  however,  the 
tale  being  ended,  offered  as  his  opinion  that  her 
fate  ought  to  be  quite  clearly  recognized  as  a 
punishment.  So  thought  the  church-warden,  and 
also  the  quiet  gentleman  sitting  near.  The  latter 
knew  many  other  instances  in  point,  one  of  which 
could  be  narrated  in  a  few  words. 


DAME    THE    NINTH. 

Ube  JHucbess  of  UDamptonsblre, 

BY  THE  QUIET  GENTLEMAN. 

Some  fifty  years  ago,  the  then  Duke  of  Hamp- 
tonshire,  fifth  of  that  title,  was  incontestably  the 
head  man  in  his  county,  and  particularly  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Batton.  He  came  of  the  an- 
cient and  loyal  family  of  Saxelbye,  which,  before 
its  ennoblement,  had  numbered  many  knightly 
and  ecclesiastical  celebrities  in  its  male  line.  It 
would  have  occupied  a  painstaking  county  histo- 
rian a  whole  afternoon  to  take  rubbings  of  the  nu- 
merous eflSgies  and  heraldic  devices  graven  to  their 
memory  on  the  brasses,  tablets,  and  altar- tombs 
in  the  aisle  of  the  parish  church.  The  Duke  him- 
self, however,  was  a  man  little  attracted  by  an- 
cient chronicles  in  stone  and  metal,  even  when 
they  concerned  his  own  beginnings.  He  allowed 
his  mind  to  linger  by  preference  on  the  many 
graceless  and  unedifying  pleasures  which  his  posi- 
tion placed  at  his  command.     He  could   on  oc- 


THE    DUCIIKSS    OF    HAAIPTONSHIRE.  235 

casion  close  the  mouths  of  his  dependants  by  a 
good  bomb-like  oath,  and  he  argued  doggedly  with 
the  parson  on  the  virtues  of  cock-fighting  and 
baiting  the  bull. 

This  nobleman's  personal  appearance  was  some- 
what impressive.  His  complexion  was  that  of  the 
copperbeech-tree.  His  frame  was  stalwart,  though 
slightly  stoojnng.  His  mouth  was  large,  and  he 
carried  an  unpolished  sapling  as  his  walking-stick, 
except  when  he  carried  a  spud  for  cutting  up  any 
thistle  he  encountered  on  his  walks.  His  castle 
stood  in  the  midst  of  a  park,  surrounded  by  dusky 
elms,  except  to  the  southward;  and  when  the 
moon  shone  out,  the  gleaming  stone  fa5ade,  back- 
ed by  heavy  boughs,  was  visible  from  the  distant 
high-road  as  a  white  spot  on  the  surface  of  dark- 
ness. Though  called  a  castle,  the  building  was 
little  forti6ed,  and  had  been  erected  witli  greater 
eye  to  internal  convenience  than  those  crannied 
places  of  defence  to  which  the  name  strictly  ap- 
pertains. It  was  a  castellated  mansion  as  regular 
as  a  chess-board  on  its  ground-plan,  ornamented 
with  make-believe  bastions  and  machicolations, 
behind  which  were  stacks  of  battlemented  chim- 
neys. On  still  mornings,  at  the  fire-lighting  hour, 
when  ghostly  housemaids  stalk  the  corridors,  and 
thin  streaks  of  light  through  the  shutter-chinks 
lend  startling  winks  and  smiles  to  ancestors  on 
canvas,  twelve  or  fifteen  thin  stems  of  blue  smoke 
sprouted  upward  from  these  chimney -tops,  and 
spread  into  a  flat  canopy  on  high.     Around  the 


236        A  GROUP  OP  NOBLE  DAMES, 

site  stretched  10,000  acres  of  good,  fat,  unimpeach- 
able soil,  plentiful  in  glades  and  lawns  wherever 
visible  from  the  castle- windows,  and  merging  in 
homely  arable  where  screened  from  the  too -cu- 
rious eye  by  ingeniously-contrived  plantations. 

Some  way  behind  the  owner  of  all  this  came 
the  second  man  in  the  parish,  the  rector,  the  Hon- 
orable and  Reverend  Mr.  Oldbourne,  a  widower, 
over  stiff  and  stern  for  a  clergyman,  whose  severe 
white  neckcloth,  well  -  kept  gray  hair,  and  right- 
lined  face  betokened  none  of  those  sympathetic 
traits  whereon  depends  so  much  of  a  parson's 
power  to  do  good  among  his  fellow  -  creatures. 
The  last,  far -removed  man  of  the  series  —  alto- 
gether the  Neptune  of  these  local  primaries — was 
the  curate,  Mr.  Alwyn  Hill.  He  was  a  handsome 
young  deacon,  with  curly  hair,  dreamy  eyes — so 
dreamy  that  to  look  long  into  them  was  like  as- 
cending and  floating  among  summer  clouds  —  a 
complexion  as  fresh  as  a  flower,  and  a  chin  abso- 
lutely beardless.  Though  his  age  was  about 
twenty-five,  he  looked  not  much  over  nineteen. 

The  rector  had  a  daughter  called  Emmeline,  of 
so  sweet  and  simple  a  nature  that  her  beauty  was 
discovered,  measured,  and  inventoried  by  almost 
everybody  in  that  part  of  the  country  before  it 
was  suspected  by  herself  to  exist.  She  had  been 
bred  in  comparative  solitude;  a  rencounter  with 
men  ti'oubled  and  confused  her.  Whenever  a 
strange  visitor  came  to  her  father's  house  she 
slipped  into  the  orchard  and  remained  till  he  was 


THE    DUCHESS    OP   HAMPTONSIIIRE.  237 

gone,  ridiculing  her  weakness  in  apostrophes,  but 
unable  to  overcome  it.  Her  virtues  lay  in  no  re- 
sistant force  of  character,  but  in  a  natural  inap- 
petency  for  evil  things,  which  to  her  were  as  un- 
meaning as  joints  of  flesh  to  a  herbivorous  creature. 
Iler  charms  of  person,  manner,  and  mind  had  been 
clear  for  some  time  to  the  Antinous  in  orders,  and 
no  less  so  to  the  Duke,  who,  though  scandalously 
ignorant  of  dainty  phrases,  ever  showing  a  clumsy 
manner  towards  the  gentle  sex,  and,  in  short,  not 
at  all  a  lady's  man,  took  fire  to  a  degree  that  was 
wellnigh  terrible  at  sudden  sight  of  Emmeline,  a 
short  time  after  she  was  turned  seventeen. 

It  occurred  one  afternoon  at  the  corner  of  a 
shrubbery  between  the  castle  and  the  rectory, 
where  the  Duke  was  standing  to  watch  the  heav- 
ing of  a  mole,  when  the  fair  girl  brushed  past  at 
a  distance  of  a  few  yards,  in  the  full  light  of  the 
sun,  and  without  hat  or  bonnet.  The  Duke  went 
home  like  a  man  who  had  seen  a  spirit.  He  as- 
cended to  the  picture-gallery  of  his  castle,  and 
there  passed  some  time  in  staring  at  the  by-gone 
beauties  of  his  lino  as  if  he  had  never  before  con- 
sidered what  an  important  part  those  specimens 
of  womankind  had  played  in  the  evolution  of  the 
Saxelbye  race.  He  dined  alone,  drank  rather 
freely,  and  declared  to  himself  that  Emmeline 
Oldbourne  must  be  his. 

Meanwhile  there  had,  unfortunately,  arisen  be- 
tween the  curate  and  this  girl  some  sweet  and  se- 
cret understanding.      Particulars  of  the  attach- 


238  A   GROUP   OP   NOBLE    DAMES, 

ment  remained  unknown  then  and  always,  but  it 
was  plainly  not  approved  of  by  her  father.  His 
procedure  was  cold,  hard,  and  inexorable.  Soon 
the  curate  disappeared  from  the  parish,  almost 
suddenly,  after  bitter  and  hard  words  had  been 
heard  to  pass  between  him  and  the  rector  one 
evening  in  the  garden,  intermingled  with  which, 
like  the  cries  of  the  dying  in  the  din  of  battle, 
were  the  beseeching  sobs  of  a  woman.  Not  long 
after  this  it  was  announced  that  a  marriage  be- 
tween  the  Duke  and  Miss  Oldbourne  was  to  be 
solemnized  at  a  surprisingly  early  date. 

The  wedding-day  came  and  passed;  and  she 
was  a  duchess.  Nobody  seemed  to  think  of  the 
ousted  man  during  the  day,  or  else  those  who 
thought  of  him  concealed  their  meditations.  Some 
of  the  less  subservient  ones  were  disposed  to  speak 
in  a  jocular  manner  of  the  august  husband  and 
wife,  others  to  make  correct  and  pretty  speeches 
about  them,  according  as  their  sex  and  nature 
dictated.  But  in  the  evening,  the  ringers  in  the 
belfry,  with  whom  Alwyn  had  been  a  favorite, 
eased  their  minds  a  little  concerning  the  gentle 
young  man,  and  the  possible  regrets  of  the  woman 
he  had  loved. 

"Don't  you  see  something  wrong  in  it  all?" 
said  the  third  bell,  as  he  wiped  his  face.  "I  know 
well  enough  where  she  would  have  liked  to  stable 
her  horses  to-night,  when  they  have  done  their 
journey." 

"  That  is,  you  would  know  if  you  could  tell 


THE   DUCHESS    OF    HAMPTONSHIRE.  239 

where  young  Mr,  Hill  is  living,  which  is  known 
to  none  in  the  parish." 

"  Except  to  the  lady  that  this  ring  o'  grandsire 
triples  is  in  honor  of." 

Yet  these  friendly  cottagers  were  at  this  time 
far  from  suspecting  the  real  dimensions  of  Emme- 
line's  misery,  nor  was  it  clear  even  to  those  who 
came  into  much  closer  communion  with  her  than 
they,  so  well  had  she  concealed  her  heart-sickness. 
But  bride  and  bridegroom  had  not  long  been 
home  at  the  castle  when  the  young  wife's  unhap- 
piness  became  plainly  enough  perceptible.  Her 
maids  and  men  said  that  she  was  in  the  habit  of 
turning  to  the  wainscot  and  shedding  stupid,  scald- 
ing tears  at  a  time  when  a  right-minded  lady  would 
have  been  overhauling  her  wardrobe.  She  prayed 
earnestly  in  the  great  church-pew,  where  she  sat 
lonely  and  insignificant  as  a  mouse  in  a  cell,  in- 
stead of  counting  her  rings,  falling  asleep,  or 
amusing  herself  in  silent  laughter  at  the  queer 
old  people  in  the  congregation,  as  previous  beau- 
ties of  the  family  had  done  in  their  time.  She 
seemed  to  care  no  more  for  eating  and  drinking 
out  of  crystal  and  silver  than  from  a  service  of 
earthen  vessels.  Her  head  was,  in  truth,  full  of 
something  else ;  and  that  such  was  the  case  was 
only  too  obvious  to  the  Duke,  her  husband.  At 
first  he  would  only  taunt  her  for  her  folly  in  think-, 
ing  of  that  milk-and-water  parson  ;  but  as  time 
went  on  his  charges  took  a  more  positive  shape. 
He  would  not  believe  her  assurance  that  she  had  in 


240        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

no  way  communicated  witli  her  former  lover,  nor 
he  with  her,  since  their  parting  in  the  presence  of 
her  father.  This  led  to  some  strange  scenes  be- 
tween them  which  need  not  be  detailed;  their  re- 
sult was  soon  to  take  a  catastrophic  shape. 

One  dark,  quiet  evening,  about  two  months  after 
the  marriage,  a  man  entered  the  gate  admitting 
from  the  highway  to  the  park  and  avenue  which 
ran  up  to  the  house.  He  arrived  within  two  hun- 
dred yards  of  the  walls,  when  he  left  the  gravel- 
led drive  and  drew  near  to  the  castle  by  a  round- 
about path  leading  into  a  shrubbery.  Here  he 
stood  still.  In  a  few  minutes  the  strokes  of  the 
castle -clock  resounded,  and  then  a  female  figure 
entered  the  same  secluded  nook  from  an  opposite 
direction.  There  the  two  indistinct  persons  leaped 
together  like  a  pair  of  dewdrops  on  a  leaf;  and 
then  they  stood  apart,  facing  each  other,  the 
woman  looking  down. 

"  Emmeline,  you  begged  me  to  come,  and  here 
I  am,  Heaven  forgive  me !"  said  the  man,  hoarsely. 

"  You  are  going  to  emigrate,  Alwyn,"  she  said, 
in  broken  accents.  "  I  have  heard  of  it ;  you  sail 
from  Plymouth  in  three  days  in  the  Western 
Glory  P' 

"  Yes.  I  can  live  in  England  no  longer.  Life  is 
as  death  to  me  here,"  says  he. 

"  My  life  is  even  worse  —  worse  than  death. 
Death  would  not  have  driven  me  to  this  ex- 
tremity. Listen,  Alwyn  —  I  have  sent  for  you 
to  beg  to  go  with  you,  or  at  least  to  be  near 


THE    DUCHESS    OF    HAMPTONSHIBB.  241 

you — to  do  anything  so  that  it  be  not  to  stay 
here." 

"  To  go  away  with  me  ?"  he  said,  in  a  startled 
tone. 

"  Yes,  yes — or  under  your  direction,  or  by  your 
help  in  some  way!  Don't  be  horrified  at  me — 
you  must  bear  with  me  while  I  implore  it.  Noth- 
ing short  of  cruelty  Avould  have  driven  me  to  this. 
I  could  have  borne  ray  doom  in  silence  had  I  been 
left  unmolested ;  but  he  tortures  me,  and  I  shall 
soon  be  in  the  grave  if  I  cannot  escape." 

To  his  shocked  inquiry  how  her  husband  tor- 
tured her,  the  Duchess  said  that  it  was  by  jealousy. 
"  He  tries  to  wring  admissions  from  me  concern- 
ing you,"  she  said,  "  and  will  not  believe  that  I 
have  not  communicated  with  you  since  my  en- 
gagement to  him  was  settled  by  my  father,  and  I 
was  forced  to  agree  to  it." 

The  poor  curate  said  that  this  was  the  heaviest 
news  of  all.  "  lie  has  not  personally  ill-used  you  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered. 

"  What  has  he  done  ?" 

She  looked  fearfully  around,  and  said,  sobbing  : 
"In  trying  to  make  me  confess  to  what  I  have 
never  done,  he  adopts  plans  I  dare  not  describe 
for  terrifying  me  into  a  weak  state,  so  that  I  may 
own  to  anything  !  I  resolved  to  write  to  you,  as 
I  liad  no  other  friend."  She  added,  with  dreary 
irony,"  I  thought  I  would  give  him  some  ground  for 
his  susi»icion,  so  as  not  to  disgrace  his  judgment." 
16 


242  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

"Do  you  really  mean,  Emmeline,"  lie  trem- 
blingly inquired,  "  that  you — that  you  want  to  fly 
with  me?" 

"  Can  you  think  that  I  would  act  otherwise 
than  in  earnest  at  such  a  time  at  this  ?" 

He  was  silent  for  a  minute  or  more.  "You 
must  not  go  with  me,"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

"It  would  be  sin." 

"  It  cannot  be  sin,  for  I  have  never  wanted  to 
commit  sin  in  my  life ;  and  it  isn't  likely  I  would 
begin  now,  when  I  pray  every  day  to  die  and  be 
sent  to  Heaven  out  of  my  misery !" 

"But  it  is  wrong,  Emmeline,  all  the  same." 

"  Is  it  wrong  to  run  away  from  the  fire  that 
scorches  you  ?" 

"  It  would  look  wrong,  at  any  rate,  in  this 
case." 

"Alwyn,  Alwyn,  take  me,  I  beseech  you !"  she 
burst  out.  "  It  is  not  right  in  general,  I  know, 
but  it  is  such  an  exceptional  instance,  this.  Why 
has  such  a  sevei^e  strain  been  put  upon  me  ?  I 
was  doing  no  harm,  injuring  no  one,  helping  many 
people,  and  expecting  happiness ;  yet  trouble  came. 
Can  it  be  that  God  holds  me  in  derision?  I  had 
no  supporter — I  gave  way ;  and  now  raj  life  is  a 
burden  and  a  shame  to  me,  .  .  .  Oh,  if  you  only 
knew  how  much  to  me  this  request  to  you  is — 
how  my  life  is  wrapped  up  in  it,  you  could  not 
deny  me!" 

"  This  is  almost  beyond  endurance  —  Heaven 


THE    DUCHESS    OF    HAMPTONSHIRE.  243 

support  US,"  he  groaned.  "Emmy,  you  are  the 
Duchess  of  Hamptonshire,  the  Duke  of  Hampton- 
shire's  wife;  you  must  not  go  witli  me!" 

"And  am  I  then  refused  ? — Oh,  am  I  refused  ?" 
she  ci-ied,  frantically.  "Alwyn,  Alwyn,  do  you 
say  it  indeed  to  me  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do,  dear,  tender  heart!  I  do  most 
sadly  say  it.  You  must  not  go.  Forgive  me,  for 
there  is  no  alternative  but  refusal.  Though  I  die, 
though  you  die,  we  must  not  fly  together.  It  is 
forbidden  in  God's  law.  Good-bye,  for  always 
and  ever!" 

He  tore  himself  away,  hastened  from  the  shrub- 
bery, and  vanished  among  the  trees. 

Three  days  after  this  meeting  and  farewell, 
Alwyn,  his  soft,  handsome  features  stamped  with 
a  haggard  hardness  that  ten  years  of  ordinary 
wear  and  tear  in  the  world  could  scarcely  have 
produced,  sailed  from  Plymouth  on  a  drizzling 
morning,  in  the  passenger- ship  Westerti  Glory. 
When  the  land  had  faded  behind  him  he  mechan- 
ically endeavored  to  school  himself  into  a  stoical 
frame  of  mind.  His  attempt,  backed  up  by  the 
strong  moral  staying-power  that  had  enabled  him 
to  resist  the  passionate  temptation  to  which  Em- 
meline,  in  her  reckless  trustfulness,  had  exposed 
him,  was  rewarded  by  a  certain  kind  of  success, 
though  the  murmuring  stretch  of  waters  whereon 
he  gazed  day  after  day  too  often  seemed  to  be 
articulating  to  him  in  tones  of  her  well-remem- 
bered voice. 


244        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

He  framed  on  his  journey  rules  of  conduct  for 
reducing  to  mild  proportions  the  feverish  regrets 
which  would  occasionally  arise  and  agitate  him, 
when  he  indulged  in  visions  of  what  might  have 
been  had  he  not  hearkened  to  the  whispers  of  con- 
science. He  fixed  his  thoughts  for  so  many  hours 
a  day  on  philosophical  passages  in  the  volumes  he 
had  brought  with  him,  allowing  himself  now  and 
then  a  few  minutes'  thought  of  Emmeline,  with 
the  strict  yet  reluctant  niggardliness  of  an  ailing 
epicure  proportioning  the  rank  drinks  that  cause 
his  malady.  The  voyage  was  marked  by  the  usual 
incidents  of  a  sailing-passage  in  those  days — a 
storm,  a  calm,  a  man  overboard,  a  birth,  and  a 
funeral — the  latter  sad  event  being  one  in  which 
he,  as  the  only  clergyman  on  board,  officiated,  read- 
ing the  service  ordained  for  the  purpose.  The 
ship  duly  arrived  at  Boston  early  in  the  month 
following,  and  thence  he  proceeded  to  Providence 
to  seek  out  a  distant  relative. 

After  a  short  stay  at  Providence  he  returned 
again  to  Boston,  and  by  applying  himself  to  a 
serious  occupation  made  good  progress  in  shaking 
off  the  dreary  melancholy  which  enveloped  him 
even  now.  Distracted  and  weakened  in  his  be- 
liefs by  his  recent  experiences,  he  decided  that 
he  could  not  for  a  time  worthily  fill  the  office  of 
a  minister  of  religion,  and  applied  for  the  master- 
ship of  a  school.  Some  introductions,  given  him 
before  starting,  were  useful  now,  and  he  soon  be- 
came known  as  a  respectable  scholar  and  gentle- 


THE    DUCHESS    OF    HAMPTONSHLRE.  245 

man  to  the  trustees  of  one  of  the  colleges.  This 
ultimately  led  to  his  retirement  from  the  school 
and  installation  in  the  college  as  professor  of 
rhetoric  and  oratory. 

Here  and  thus  he  lived  on,  exerting  himself 
solely  because  of  a  conscientious  determination 
to  do  his  duty.  He  passed  his  winter  evenings 
in  turning  sonnets  and  elegies,  often  giving  his 
thoucrhts  voice  in  "Lines  to  an  Unfortunate 
Lady,"  -while  his  summer  leisure  at  the  same 
hour  would  be  spent  in  watching  the  lengthening 
shadows  from  his  window,  and  fancifully  com- 
paring them  with  the  shades  of  his  own  life.  If 
he  walked,  he  mentally  inquired  which  was  the 
eastern  quarter  of  the  landscape,  and  thought  of 
the  2000  miles  of  water  that  way,  and  of  what 
was  beyond  it.  In  a  Avord,  he  was  at  all  spare 
times  dreaming  of  her  who  was  only  a  memory 
to  him,  and  would  probably  never  be  more. 

Nine  years  passed  by,  and  under  their  wear 
and  tear  Alwyn  Hill's  face  lost  a  great  many  of 
the  attractive  characteristics  which  had  formerly 
distinguished  it.  He  was  kind  to  his  pupils  and 
affable  to  all  who  came  in  contact  with  him ;  but 
the  kernel  of  his  life,  his  secret,  was  kept  as 
snugly  shut  up  as  though  he  had  been  dumb. 
In  talking  to  his  acquaintances  of  England  and 
his  life  there,  he  omitted  the  episode  of  Batton 
Castle  and  Emmeline  as  if  it  had  no  existence  in 
his  calendar  at  all.  Though  of  towering  import- 
ance to  himself,  it  had  filled   but   a  short  and 


246  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

small  fragment  of  time,  an  ephemeral  season 
which  would  have  been  wellnigh  imperceptible, 
even  to  him,  at  this  distance,  but  for  the  incident 
it  enshrined. 

One  day,  at  this  date,  when  cursorily  glancing 
over  an  old  English  newspaper,  he  observed  a 
paragraph  which,  short  as  it  was,  contained  for 
him  whole  tomes  of  thrilling  information — rung 
with  more  passion-stirring  rhythm  than  the  col- 
lected cantos  of  all  the  poets.  It  was  an  an- 
nouncement of  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Hamp- 
tonshire,  leaving  behind  him  a  widow,  but  no 
children. 

The  current  of  Alwyn's  thoughts  now  com- 
pletely changed.  On  looking  again  at  the  news- 
paper he  found  it  to  be  one  that  was  sent  him 
long  ago,  and  had  been  carelessly  thrown  aside. 
But  for  an  accidental  overhauling  of  the  waste 
journals  in  his  study  he  might  not  have  known 
of  the  event  for  years.  At  this  moment  of  read- 
ing the  Duke  had  already  been  dead  seven  months. 
Alwyn  could  now  no  longer  bind  himself  down  to 
machine-made  synecdoche,  antithesis,  and  climax, 
being  full  of  spontaneous  specimens  of  all  these 
rhetorical  forms,  which  he  dared  not  utter.  Who 
shall  wonder  that  his  mind  luxuriated  in  dreams 
of  a  sweet  possibility  now  laid  open  for  the  first 
time  these  many  years?  for  Emmeline  was  to  him 
now  as  ever  the  one  dear  thing  in  all  the  world. 
The  issue  of  his  silent  romancing  was  that  he  re- 
solved to  return  to  her  at  the  very  earliest  moment. 


THB   DUCHESS   OF    HAMPTONSIIIRE.  247 

But  he  could  not  abandon  his  professional 
work  on  the  instant.  He  did  not  get  really  quite 
free  from  engagements  till  four  months  later ; 
but,  though  suffering  throes  of  impatience  con- 
tinually, he  said  to  himself  every  day  :  "  If  she 
has  continued  to  love  me  nine  years  she  will  love 
me  ten ;  she  will  think  the  more  tenderly  of  me 
when  her  present  hours  of  solitude  shall  have 
done  their  proper  work ;  old  times  will  revive 
with  the  cessation  of  her  recent  experience,  and 
every  day  will  favor  my  return." 

The  enforced  interval  soon  passed,  and  he  duly 
arrived  in  England,  reaching  the  village  of  Bat- 
ton  on  a  certain  winter  day  between  twelve  and 
thirteen  months  subsequent  to  the  time  of  the 
Duke's  death. 

It  was  evening;  yet  such  was  Alwyn's  impa- 
tience that  he  could  not  forbear  taking,  this  very 
night,  one  look  at  the  castle  which  Emmeline  had 
entered  as  unhappy  mistress  ten  years  before. 
He  threaded  the  park  trees,  gazed  in  passing  at 
well-known  outlines  which  rose  against  the  dim 
sky,  and  was  soon  interested  in  observing  that 
lively  country-people,  in  parties  of  two  and  three, 
were  walking  before  and  behind  him  up  the  in- 
terlaced avenue  to  the  castle  gate-way.  Knowing 
himself  to  be  safe  from  recognition,  Alwyn  in- 
quired of  one  of  these  pedestrians  what  was  go- 
ing on. 

"Her  Grace  gives  her  tenantry  a  ball  to-night, 
to  keep  up  the  old  custom  of  the  Duke  and  his 


248        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

father  before  him,  which  she   does  not  wish  to 
change." 

"  Indeed !  Has  she  lived  here  entirely  alone 
since  the  Duke's  death '?" 

"  Quite  alone.  But  though  she  doesn't  receive 
company  herself,  she  likes  the  village  people  to 
enjoy  themselves,  and  often  has  'em  here." 

"Kind-hearted,  as  always!"  thought  Alwyn. 

On  reaching  the  castle  he  found  that  the  great 
gates  at  the  tradesmen's  entrance  were  thrown 
back  against  the  wall  as  if  they  were  never  to 
be  closed  again ;  that  the  passages  and  rooms  in 
that  wing  were  brilliantly  lighted  up,  some  of 
the  numerous  candles  guttering  down  over  the 
green  leaves  which  decorated  them,  and  upon  the 
silk  dresses  of  the  happy  farmers'  wives  as  they 
passed  beneath,  each  on  her  husband's  arm.  Al- 
wyn found  no  difficulty  in  marching  in  along 
with  the  rest,  the  castle  being  Liberty  Hall  to- 
night. He  stood  unobserved  in  a  corner  of  the 
large  apartment  where  dancing  was  about  to  begin. 

"  Her  Grace,  though  hardly  out  of  mourning, 
will  be  sure  to  come  down  and  lead  off  the  dance 
with  neighbor  Bates,"  said  one. 

"Who  is  neighbor  Bates?"  asked  Alwyn. 

"An  old  man  she  respects  much — the  oldest  of 
her  tenant-farmers.  He  was  seventy-eight  his 
last  birthday." 

"Ah,  to  be  sure !"  said  Alwyn,  at  his  ease.  "  I 
remember." 

The  dancers  formed  in  line,  and  waited.     A 


THE    DUCHESS    OF    HAMPTONSHIRE.  249 

door  opened  at  the  farther  end  of  the  hall,  and  a 
lady  in  black  silk  came  forth.  She  bowed,  smiled, 
and  proceeded  to  the  top  of  the  dance. 

"Who  is  that  lady?"  said  Alwyn,  in  a  puzzled 
tone.  "I  thought  you  told  me  that  the  Duchess 
of  Hamptonshire — " 

"  That  is  the  Duchess,"  said  his  informant. 

"  But  there  is  another  ?" 

"  No ;  there  is  no  other." 

"But  she  is  not  the  Duchess  of  Hamptonshire 
— who  used  to — "  Alwyn's  tongue  stuck  to  his 
mouth,  he  could  get  no  further. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  his  acquaintance. 
Alwyn  had  retired,  and  was  supporting  himself 
against  the  wall. 

The  wretched  Alwyn  murmured  something 
about  a  stitch  in  his  side  from  walking.  Then 
the  music  struck  up,  the  dance  went  on,  and  his 
neighbor  became  so  interested  in  watching  the 
movements  of  this  strange  duchess  through  its 
mazes  as  to  forget  Alwjm  for  a  while. 

It  gave  him  an  opportunity  to  brace  himself 
up.  He  was  a  man  who  had  suffered,  and  he 
could  suffer  again.  "  IIow  came  that  person  to 
be  your  duchess?"  he  asked,  in  a  firm,  distinct 
voice,  when  he  had  attained  complete  self-com- 
mand. *'  Where  is  her  other  Grace  of  Hampton- 
shire?   There  certainly  was  another.    I  know  it." 

"Oh,  the  previous  one!  Yes,  yes.  She  ran 
away  years  and  years  ago  with  the  young  curate. 
Mr.  Hill  was  the  young  man's  name,  if  I  recollect." 


250  A    GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

*'  No !  She  never  did.  What  do  you  mean  by 
that?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  she  certainly  ran  away.  She  met  the 
curate  in  the  shrubbery  about  a  couple  of  months 
after  her  marriage  with  the  Duke.  There  were 
folks  who  saw  the  meeting  and  heard  some  words 
of  their  talk.  They  arranged  to  go,  and  she  sail- 
ed from  Plymouth  with  him  a  day  or  two  after- 
wards." 

"  That's  not  true." 

"  Then  'tis  the  queerest  lie  ever  told  by  man. 
Her  father  believed  and  knew  to  his  dying  day 
that  she  went  with  him;  and  so  did  the  Duke, 
and  everybody  about  here.  Aye,  there  was  a  fine 
upset  about  it  at  the  time.  The  Duke  traced  her 
to  Plymouth." 

"Traced  her  to  Plymouth?" 

"He  traced  her  to  Plymouth,  and  set  on  his 
spies ;  and  they  found  that  she  went  to  the  ship- 
ping-office, and  inquired  if  Mr.  Alwyn  Hill  had 
entered  his  name  as  passenger  by  the  Wester?i 
Glory;  and  when  she  found  that  he  had,  she 
booked  herself  for  the  same  ship,  but  not  in  her 
real  name.  When  the  vessel  had  sailed  a  letter 
reached  the  Duke  from  her,  telling  him  what  she 
had  done.  She  never  came  back  here  again.  His 
Grace  lived  by  himself  a  number  of  years,  and 
married  this  lady  only  twelve  months  before  he 
died." 

Alwyn  was  in  a  state  of  indescribable  bewilder- 
ment.    But,  unmanned  as  he  was,  he  called  the 


THE    DUCHESS    OF    HAMPTONSHIRE.  251 

next  day  on  the,  to  him,  spurious  Duchess  of 
Hamptonshire.  At  first  she  was  alarmed  at  his 
statement,  then  cold,  then  she  was  won  over  by 
his  condition  to  give  confidence  for  confidence. 
She  showed  him  a  letter  which  had  been  found 
among  the  papers  of  the  late  Duke,  corroborating 
what  Alwyn's  informant  had  detailed.  It  was 
from  Emmeline,  bearing  the  postmarked  date  at 
which  the  Western  Glory  sailed,  and  briefly  stated 
that  she  had  emigrated  by  that  ship  to  America. 

Alwyn  applied  himself  body  and  mind  to  un- 
ravel the  remainder  of  the  mystery.  The  story 
repeated  to  him  was  always  the  same :  "  She 
ran  away  with  the  curate."  A  strangely  circum- 
stantial piece  of  intelligence  was  added  to  this 
when  he  had  pushed  his  inquiries  a  little  further. 
There  was  given  him  the  name  of  a  waterman 
at  Plymouth,  who  had  come  forward  at  the  time 
that  she  was  missed  and  sought  for  by  her  hus- 
band, and  had  stated  that  he  put  her  on  board 
the  Wester7i  Glory  at  dusk  one  evening  before 
that  vessel  sailed. 

After  several  days  of  search  about  the  alleys 
and  quays  of  Plymouth  Barbican,  during  which 
these  impossible  words,  "She  ran  off  with  the 
curate,"  became  branded  on  his  brain,  Alwyn 
found  this  important  waterman.  lie  was  posi- 
tive as  to  the  truth  of  his  story,  still  remember- 
ing the  incident  well,  and  he  described  in  detail 
the  lady's  dress,  as  he  had  long  ago  described  it 
to  her  husband,  which  description  corresponded 


252        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

in  every  particular  with  the  dress  worn  by  Em- 
meline  on  the  evening  of  their  parting. 

Before  proceeding  to  the  other  side  of  the  At- 
lantic to  continue  his  inquiries  there,  the  puzzled 
and  distracted  Alwyn  set  himself  to  ascertain  the 
address  of  Captain  Wheeler,  who  had  command- 
ed the  Western  Glory  in  the  year  of  Alwyn's  voy- 
age out,  and  immediately  wrote  a  letter  to  him  on 
the  subject. 

The  only  circumstances  which  the  sailor  could 
recollect  or  discover  from  his  papers  in  connec- 
tion with  such  a  story  were,  that  a  woman  bear- 
ing the  name  which  Alwyn  had  mentioned  as  fic- 
titious certainly  did  come  aboard  for  a  voyage  he 
made  about  that  time;  that  she  took  a  common 
berth  among  the  poorest  emigrants ;  that  she  died 
on  the  voyage  out,  at  about  five  days'  sail  from 
Plymouth ;  that  she  seemed  a  lady  in  manners 
and  education.  Why  she  had  not  applied  for  a 
first-class  passage,  why  she  had  no  trunks,  they 
could  not  guess,  for  though  she  had  little  money 
in  her  pocket  she  had  that  about  her  which  would 
have  fetched  it.  "  We  buried  her  at  sea,"  con- 
tinued the  captain.  "A  young  parson,  one  of 
the  cabin-passengers,  read  the  burial-service  over 
her,  I  remember  well." 

The  whole  scene  and  proceedings  darted  upon 
Alwyn's  recollection  in  a  moment.  It  was  a  fine 
breezy  morning  on  that  long-past  voyage  out,  and 
he  had  been  told  that  they  were  running  at  the 
rate  of  a  hundred  and  odd  miles  a  day.     The 


THE    DUCHESS   OF  HAMPTONSHIRE.  253 

news  went  round  that  one  of  the  poor  young 
women  in  the  other  part  of  the  vessel  was  ill  of 
fever,  and  delirious.  The  tidings  caused  no  little 
alarm  among  the  passengers,  for  the  sanitary  con- 
ditions of  the  ship  were  anything  but  satisfactory. 
Shortly  after  this  the  doctor  announced  that  she 
had  died.  Then  Ahvyn  had  learned  that  she  was 
laid  out  for  burial  in  great  haste,  because  of  the 
danger  that  would  have  been  incurred  by  delay. 
And  next  the  funeral  scene  rose  before  him,  and 
the  prominent  part  that  he  had  taken  in  that  sol- 
emn ceremony.  The  captain  had  come  to  him, 
requesting  him  to  officiate,  as  there  was  no  chap- 
lain on  board.  This  he  had  agreed  to  do ;  and 
as  the  sun  went  down  with  a  blaze  in  his  face,  he 
read  amid  them  all  assembled :  "  We  therefore 
commit  her  body  to  the  deep,  to  be  turned  into 
corruption,  looking  for  the  resurrection  of  the 
body  when  the  sea  shall  give  up  her  dead." 

The  captain  also  forwarded  the  addresses  of 
the  ship's  matron  and  of  other  persons  who  had 
been  engaged  on  board  at  the  date.  To  these 
Alwyn  went  in  the  course  of  time.  A  categori- 
cal description  of  the  clothes  of  the  dead  truant, 
the  color  of  her  hair,  and  other  things,  extinguish- 
ed forever  all  hope  of  a  mistake  in  identity. 

At  last,  then,  the  course  of  events  had  become 
clear.  On  that  unhappy  evening  when  he  left 
Emmeline  in  the  shrubbery,  forbidding  her  to 
follow  him  because  it  would  be  a  sin,  she  must 
have  disobeyed.     She  must  have  followed  at  his 


254  A    GROUP    OF    NOBLE    DAMES. 

heels  silently  through  the  darkness,  like  a  poor 
pet  animal  that  will  not  be  driven  back.  She 
could  have  accumulated  nothing  for  the  jour- 
ney more  than  she  might  have  carried  in  her 
hand ;  and  thus  poorly  provided  she  must  have 
embarked.  Her  intention  had  doubtless  been  to 
make  her  presence  on  board  known  to  him  as 
soon  as  she  could  muster  courage  to  do  so. 

Thus  the  ten  years'  chapter  of  Alwyn  Hill's 
romance  wound  itself  up  under  his  eyes.  That 
the  poor  young  woman  in  the  steerage  had  been 
the  young  Duchess  of  Hamptonshire  was  never 
publicly  disclosed.  Hill  had  no  longer  any  rea- 
son for  remaining  in  England,  and  soon  after  left 
its  shores  with  no  intention  to  return.  Previous 
to  his  departure  he  confided  his  story  to  an  old 
friend  from  his  native  town — grandfather  of  the 
person  who  now  relates  it  to  you. 


A  few  members,  including  the  bookworm,  seem- 
ed to  be  impressed  by  the  quiet  gentleman's  tale ; 
but  the  member  we  have  called  the  Spark — who, 
by  the  way,  was  getting  somewhat  tinged  with 
the  light  of  other  days,  and  owned  to  eight -and- 
thirty,  and  who  walked  daintily  about  the  room 
instead  of  sitting  down  by  the  fire  with  the  ma- 
jority, and  said  that,  for  his  part,  he  preferred  some- 
thing more  lively  than  the  last  story — something 
in  which  such  long- separated  lovers  were  ulti- 
mately united.     He  also  liked  stories  that  were 


THE    UUCHKSS    OF    HAMPTONSHIRE.  255 

more  modern  in  their  date  of  action  than  those  he 
had  heard  to-day. 

Members  immediately  requested  him  to  give 
them  a  specimen,  to  which  the  Spark  replied  that 
he  didn't  mind,  as  far  as  that  went.  And  though 
the  vice-president,  the  man  of  family,  the  colo- 
nel, and  others,  looked  at  their  watches,  and  said 
they  must  soon  retire  to  their  respective  quarters 
in  the  hotel  adjoining,  they  all  decided  to  sit  out 
the  Spark's  story. 


DAME  THE  TENTH. 

Ube  Ibonorable  Xaura. 

BY  THE  SPARK. 

It  was  a  cold  and  gloomy.  Christmas  Eve. 
The  mass  of  cloud  overhead  was  almost  imper- 
vious to  such  daylight  as  still  lingered  on;  the 
snow  lay  several  inches  deep  upon  the  ground, 
and  the  slanting  downfall  which  still  went  on 
threatened  to  considerably  increase  its  thickness 
before  the  morning.  The  Prospect  Hotel,  a  build- 
ing standing  near  the  wild  north  coast  of  Lower 
Wessex,  looked  so  lonely  and  so  useless  at  such  a 
time  as  this  that  a  passing  wayfarer  would  have 
been  led  to  forget  summer  possibilities,  and  to 
wonder  at  the  commercial  courage  which  could 
invest  capital,  on  the  basis  of  the  popular  taste 
for  the  picturesque,  in  a  country  subject  to  such 
dreary  phases.  That  the  district  was  alive  with 
visitors  in  August  seemed  but  a  dim  tradition 
in  weather  so  totally  opposed  to  all  that  tempts 
mankind  from  home.     However,  there  the  hotel 


THE    HONORABLE    LAURA.  257 

stood  immovable;  and  the  cliffs,  creeks,  and  head- 
lands which  were  the  primary  attractions  of  the 
spot,  rising  in  full  view  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  valley,  were  now  but  stern,  angular  outlines, 
while  the  townlet  in  front  was  tinged  over  with 
a  grimy  dirtiness  rather  than  the  pearly  gray 
that  in  summer  lent  such  beauty  to  its  appear- 
ance. 

Within  the  hotel  commanding  this  outlook  the 
landlord  walked  idly  about  with  his  hands  in  hia 
pockets,  not  in  the  least  expectant  of  a  visitor,  and 
yet  unable  to  settle  down  to  any  occupation  which 
should  compensate  in  some  degree  for  the  losses 
that  winter  idleness  entailed  on  his  regular  pro- 
fession. So  little,  indeed,  was  anybody  expected, 
that  the  coffee-room  waiter — a  genteel  boy,  whose 
plated  buttons  in  summer  were  as  close  together 
upon  the  front  of  his  short  jacket  as  peas  in  a 
pod — now  appeared  in  the  back  yard,  metamor- 
phosed into  the  unrecognizable  shape  of  a  rough 
country  lad  in  corduroys  and  hobnailed  boots, 
sweeping  the  snow  away,  and  talking  the  local 
dialect  in  all  its  purity,  quite  oblivious  of  the  new 
polite  accent  he  had  learned  in  the  hot  weather 
from  the  well-behaved  visitors.  The  front  door 
was  closed,  and,  as  if  to  express  still  more  fully 
the  sealed  and  chrysalis  state  of  the  establish- 
ment, a  sand -bag  was  placed  at  the  bottom  to 
keep  out  the  insidious  snow-drift,  the  wind  set- 
ting in  directly  from  that  (juarter. 

The  landlord,  entering  his  own  parlor,  walked 
17 


258  A  GROUP    OP  NOBLE   DAMES. 

to  the  large  fire  which  it  was  absolutely  necessary 
to  keep  up  for  his  comfort,  no  such  blaze  burning 
in  the  coffee-room  or  elsewhere,  and,  after  giving 
it  a  stir,  returned  to  a  table  in  the  lobby,  whereon 
lay  the  visitors'  book — now  closed  and  pushed 
back  against  the  wall.  He  carelessly  opened  it ; 
not  a  name  had  been  entered  there  since  the 
19th  of  the  previous  November,  and  that  was 
only  the  name  of  a  man  who  had  arrived  on  a 
tricycle,  who,  indeed,  had  not  been  asked  to  enter 
at  all. 

While  he  was  engaged  thus  the  evening  grew 
darker ;  but  before  it  was  yet  too  dark  to  distin- 
guish objects  upon  the  road  winding  round  the 
back  of  the  cliffs,  the  landlord  perceived  a  black 
spot  on  the  distant  white,  which  speedily  enlarged 
itself  and  drew  near.  The  probabilities  were  that 
this  vehicle — for  a  vehicle  of  some  sort  it  seemed 
to  be — would  pass  by  and  pursue  its  way  to  the 
nearest  rail  way  -  to  wn,  as  others  had  done.  But, 
contrary  to  the  landlord's  expectation,  as  he  stood 
conning  it  through  the  yet  unshuttered  windows, 
the  solitary  object,  on  reaching  the  corner,  turned 
into  the  hotel-front,  and  drove  up  to  the  door. 

It  was  a  conveyance  particularly  unsuited  to 
such  a  season  and  weather,  being  nothing  more 
substantial  than  an  open  basket -carriage  drawn 
by  a  single  horse.  Within  sat  two  persons,  of 
different  sexes,  as  could  soon  be  discerned,  in  spite 
of  their  muffled  attire.  The  man  held  the  reins, 
and  the  lady  had  got  some  shelter  froni  the  storm 


THE   HONORABLE    LAURA.  259 

by  clinging  close  to  his  side.  The  landlord  rang 
the  hostler's  bell  to  attract  the  attention  of  the 
stable-man,  for  the  approach  of  the  visitors  had 
been  deadened  to  noiselessness  by  the  snow,  and 
when  the  hostler  had  come  to  the  horse's  liead 
the  gentleman  and  lady  alighted,  the  landlord 
meeting  them  in  the  hall. 

The  male  stranger  was  a  foreign-looking  indi- 
vidual of  about  eight-and-twenty.  lie  was  close 
shaven,  excepting  a  mustache,  his  features  being 
good  and  even  handsome.  The  lady,  Avho  stood 
timidly  behind  him,  seemed  to  be  much  younger 
— possibly  not  more  than  eighteen,  though  it  was 
difficult  to  judge  either  of  her  age  or  appearance 
in  her  present  wrappings. 

The  gentleman  expressed  his  wish  to  stay  till 
the  morning,  explaining  somewhat  unnecessarily, 
considering  that  the  house  was  an  inn,  that  they 
had  been  unexpectedly  benighted  on  their  drive. 
Such  a  welcome  being  given  them  as  landlords 
can  give  in  dull  times,  the  latter  ordered  fires  in 
the  drawing  and  coffee  rooms,  and  went  to  the 
boy  in  the  yard,  who  soon  scrubbed  himself  up, 
dragged  his  disused  jacket  from  its  box,  polished 
the  buttons  with  his  sleeve,  and  appeared  civilized 
in  the  hall.  The  lady  was  shown  into  a  room 
where  she  could  take  off  her  snow-damped  gar- 
ments, which  she  sent  down  to  be  dried,  her  com- 
panion, meanwhile,  putting  a  couple  of  sovereigns 
on  the  table,  as  if  anxious  to  make  everything 
smooth  and  comfortable  at  starting,  and  request- 


260        A  GROUP  OP  NOBLE  DAMES. 

ing  that  a  private  sitting-room  might  be  got 
ready.  The  landlord  assured  him  that  the  best 
up-stairs  parlor — usually  public — should  be  kept 
private  this  evening,  and  sent  the  maid  to  light 
the  candles.  Dinner  was  prepared  for  them,  and, 
at  the  gentleman's  desire,  served  in  the  same  apart- 
ment, where,  the  young  lady  having  joined  him, 
they  were  left  to  the  rest  and  refreshment  they 
seemed  to  need. 

That  something  was  peculiar  in  the  relations  of 
the  pair  had  more  than  once  struck  the  landlord, 
though  wherein  that  peculiarity  lay  it  was  hard 
to  decide.  But  that  his  guest  was  one  who  paid 
his  way  readily  had  been  proved  by  his  conduct, 
and,  dismissing  conjectures,  he  turned  to  practical 
affairs. 

About  nine  o'clock  he  re-entered  the  hall,  and, 
everything  being  done  for  the  day,  again  walked 
up  and  down,  occasionally  gazing  through  the 
glass  door  at  the  prospect  without,  to  ascertain 
how  the  weather  was  progressing.  Contrary  to 
prognostication,  snow  had  ceased  falling,  and, 
with  the  rising  of  the  moon,  the  sky  had  partially 
cleared,  light  fleeces  of  cloud  drifting  across  the 
silvery  disk.  There  was  every  sign  that  a  frost 
was  going  to  set  in  later  on.  For  these  reasons 
the  distant  rising  road  was  even  more  distinct 
now  between  its  high  banks  than  it  had  been  in 
the  declining  daylight.  Not  a  track  or  rut  broke 
the  virgin  surface  of  the  white  mantle  that  lay 
along  it,  all  marks  left  by  the  lately-arrived  trav- 


THB    HONORABLE    LAUEA.  261 

ellers  having  been  speedily  obliterated  by  the 
flakes  falling  at  the  time. 

And  now  the  landlord  beheld  by  the  light  of 
the  moon  a  sight  very  similar  to  that  he  had  seen 
by  the  light  of  day.  Again  a  black  Bpot  was  ad- 
vancing down  the  road  that  margined  the  coast. 
lie  was  in  a  moment  or  two  enabled  to  perceive 
that  the  present  vehicle  moved  onward  at  a  more 
headlong  })ace  than  the  little  carriage  which  had 
preceded  it ;  next,  that  it  was  a  brougham  drawn 
by  two  powerful  horses ;  next,  that  this  carriage, 
like  the  former  one,  was  bound  for  the  hotel  door. 
This  desirable  feature  of  resemblance  caused  the 
landlord  to  once  more  withdraw  the  sand-bag  and 
advance  into  the  porch. 

An  old  gentleman  was  the  first  to  alight.  He 
was  followed  by  a  young  one,  and  both  unhesi- 
tatingly came  forward. 

"  Has  a  young  lady,  less  than  nineteen  years  of 
age,  recently  arrived  here  in  the  company  of  a 
man  some  years  her  senior?"  asked  the  old  gentle- 
man, in  haste.  "A  man  cleanly  shaven  for  the 
most  part,  having  the  appearance  of  an  opera- 
singer,  and  calling  himself  Signor  Smithozzi?" 

"  We  have  had  arrivals  lately,"  said  the  land- 
lord, in  the  tone  of  having  had  twenty  at  least — 
not  caring  to  acknowledge  the  attenuated  state 
of  business  that  afflicted  Prospect  Hotel  in  winter. 

"And  among  them  can  your  memory  recall 
two  such  as  those  I  describe — the  man  a  sort  of 
barytone  ?" 


262  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMKS. 

"  There  certainly  is  or  was  a  young  couple  stay- 
ing in  the  hotel ;  but  I  could  not  pronounce  on 
the  compass  of  the  gentleman's  voice," 

"  No,  no ;  of  course  not.  I  am  quite  bewilder- 
ed. They  arrived  in  a  basket-carriage,  altogether 
badly  provided?" 

"  They  came  in  a  carriage,  I  believe,  as  most 
of  our  visitors  do." 

"  Yes,  yes.  I  must  see  them  at  once.  Pardon 
my  want  of  ceremony,  and  show  us  in  to  where 
they  are." 

"But,  sir,  you  forget.  Suppose  the  lady  and 
gentleman  I  mean  are  not  the  lady  and  gentleman 
you  mean?  It  would  be  awkward  to  allow  you 
to  rush  in  upon  them  just  now  while  they  are  at 
dinner,  and  might  cause  me  to  lose  their  future 
patronage." 

"  True,  true.  They  may  not  be  the  same  per- 
sons. My  anxiety,  I  perceive,  makes  me  rash  in 
my  assumptions  !" 

"Upon  the  whole,  I  think  they  must  be  the 
same,  Uncle  Quantock,"  said  the  young  man,  who 
had  not  till  now  spoken.  And  turning  to  the 
landlord :  "  You  possibly  have  not  such  a  large 
assemblage  of  visitors  here,  on  this  somewhat 
forbidding  evening,  that  you  quite  forget  how 
this  couple  arrived  and  what  the  lady  wore?" 
His  tone  of  addressing  the  landlord  had  in  it  a 
quiet  frigidity  that  was  not  without  irony. 

"  Ah,  what  she  wore ;  that's  it,  James.  "What 
did  she  wear  ?" 


THE    HONORABLE    LAURA.  263 

"  I  don't  usually  take  stock  of  my  guests'  cloth- 
ing," replied  the  landlord,  dryly,  for  the  ready 
money  of  the  first  arrival  had  decidedly  biassed 
him  in  favor  of  that  gentleman's  cause.  "  You 
can  certainly  see  some  of  it  if  you  want  to,"  he 
added,  carelessly,  "for  it  is  drying  by  the  kitchen 
fire." 

Before  the  words  were  half  out  of  his  mouth  the 
old  gentleman  had  exclaimed,  "Ah !"  and  precip- 
itated himself  along  what  seemed  to  be  the  pass- 
age to  the  kitchen  ;  but  as  this  turned  out  to  be 
only  the  entrance  to  a  dark  china  closet,  he  hastily 
emerged  again,  after  a  collision  with  the  inn  crock- 
ery had  told  him  of  his  mistake. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm  sure ;  but  if  you  only 
knew  my  feelings  (which  I  cannot  at  present  ex- 
plain), you  would  make  allowances.  Anything  I 
have  broken  I  will  willingly  pay  for." 

"Don't  mention  it,  sir," said  the  landlord.  And 
showing  the  way,  they  adjourned  to  the  kitchen 
without  further  parley.  The  eldest  of  the  party 
instantly  seized  the  lady's  cloak,  that  hung  upon  a 
clothes-horse,  exclaiming  :  "Ah,  yes,  James,  it  is 
hers  !     I  knew  we  were  on  their  track." 

"  Yes,  it  is  hers,"  answered  the  nephew,  quietly, 
for  he  was  much  less  excited  than  his  companion. 

"  Show  us  their  room  at  once,"  said  the  old  man. 

"William,  have  the  lady  and  gentleman  in  the 
front  sitting-room  finished  dining?" 

"Yes,  sir,  long  ago,"  said  the  hundred  plated 
buttons. 


264  A   GROUP   OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

"Then  show  up  these  gentlemen  to  them  at 
once.  You  stay  here  to-night,  gentlemen,  I  pre- 
sume ?     Shall  the  horses  be  taken  out  ?" 

"  Feed  the  horses  and  wash  their  mouths. 
Whether  we  stay  or  not  depends  upon  circum- 
stances," said  the  placid  young  man,  as  he  fol- 
lowed his  uncle  and  the  waiter  to  the  staircase. 

"  I  think,  Nephew  James,"  said  the  former,  as 
he  paused  with  his  foot  on  the  first  step — "I 
think  we  had  better  not  be  announced,  but  take 
them  by  surprise.  She  may  go  throwing  herself 
out  of  the  window,  or  do  some  equally  desperate 
thing!" 

"  Yes,  certainly,  we'll  enter  unannounced."  And 
he  called  back  the  lad  who  preceded  them. 

"  I  cannot  sufficiently  thank  you,  James,  for  so 
effectually  aiding  me  in  this  pursuit !"  exclaimed 
the  old  gentleman,  taking  the  other  by  the  hand. 
"  My  increasing  infirmities  would  have  hindered 
my  overtaking  her  to-night,  had  it  not  been  for 
your  timely  aid." 

"I  am  only  too  happy,  uncle,  to  have  been  of 
service  to  you  in  this  or  any  other  matter.  I  only 
wish  I  could  have  accompanied  you  on  a  pleas- 
anter  journey.  However,  it  is  advisable  to  go 
up  to  them  at  once,  or  they  may  hear  us."  And 
they  softly  ascended  the  stairs. 

On  the  door  being  opened,  a  room  too  large  to 
be  comfortable,  lit  by  the  best  branch-candlesticks 
of  the  hotel,  was  disclosed,  before  the  fire  of  which 


THE    HONORABLE    LAURA.  265 

apartment  the  truant  couple  were  sitting,  very  in- 
nocently looking  over  the  hotel  scrap-book  and 
the  album  containing  views  of  the  neighborhood. 
No  sooner  had  the  old  man  entered  than  the 
young  lady — who  now  showed  herself  to  be  quite 
as  young  as  described,  and  remarkably  prepossess- 
ing as  to  features — perceptibly  turned  i^ale.  When 
the  nephew  entered,  she  turned  still  paler,  as  if  she 
were  going  to  faint.  The  young  man  described 
as  an  opera -singer  rose  with  grim  civility,  and 
placed  chairs  for  his  visitors. 

"Caught  you,  thank  God  !"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, breathlessly. 

"Yes,  worse  luck,  my  lord!"  murmured  Signor 
Smithozzi,  in  native  London  English,  that  distin- 
guished alien  having,  in  fact,  first  seen  the  light 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  City  Road.  "  She  would 
have  been  mine  to-morrow.  And  I  think  that, 
under  the  peculiar  circumstances,  it  would  be 
wiser — considering  how  soon  the  breath  of  scan- 
dal will  tarnish  a  lady's  fame — to  let  her  be  mine 
to-morrow,  just  the  same." 

"Never!"  said  the  old  man.  "Here  is  a  lady 
under  age,  without  experience,  child-like  in  her 
maiden  innocence  and  virtue,  whom  you  have  plied 
by  your  vile  arts,  till  this  morning  at  dawn — " 

"  Lord  Quantock,  were  I  not  bound  to  respect 
your  gray  hairs — " 

"  Till  this  morning  at  dawn  you  tempted  her 
away  from  her  father's  roof.  AVliat  blame  can 
attach  to  her  conduct  that  will  not,  on  a  full  ex- 


266  A    GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

planation  of  the  matter,  be  readily  passed  over  in 
her  and  thrown  entirely  on  you  ?  Laura,  you  re- 
turn at  once  with  me.  I  should  not  have  arrived, 
after  all,  early  enough  to  deliver  you,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  disinterestedness  of  your  cousin, 
Captain  Northbrook,  who,  on  my  discovering  your 
flight  this  morning,  offered — with  a  promptitude 
for  which  I  can  never  sufficiently  thank  him — to 
accompany  me  on  my  journey,  as  the  only  male 
relative  I  have  near  me.  Come,  do  you  hear  ? 
Put  on  your  things ;  we  are  off  at  once." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go!"  pouted  the  young  lady. 

"I  dare  say  you  don't,"  replied  her  father,  dryly. 
"  But  children  never  know  what's  best  for  them. 
So,  come  along,  and  trust  to  my  opinion." 

Laura  was  silent  and  did  not  move,  the  opera 
gentleman  looking  helplessly  into  the  fire,  and  the 
lady's  cousin  sitting  meditatively  calm,  as  the  sin- 
gle one  of  the  four  whose  position  enabled  him  to 
survey  the  whole  escapade  with  the  cool  criticism 
of  a  comparative  outsider. 

"  I  say  to  you,  Laura,  as  the  father  of  a  daugh- 
ter under  age,  that  you  instantly  come  with  me. 
What  ?  Would  you  compel  me  to  use  physical 
force  to  reclaim  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  return  !"  again  declared  Laura. 

"  It  is  your  duty  to  return,  nevertheless,  and  at 
once,  I  inform  you." 

"I  don't  want  to!" 

"  Now,  dear  Laura,  this  is  what  I  say  :  return 
with  me  and  your  cousin  James  quietly,  like  a 


THE    HONORABLE    LAURA.  267 

good  and  repentant  girl,  and  nothing  will  be  said. 
Nobody  knows  what  has  happened  as  yet,  and 
if  we  start  at  once  we  shall  be  home  before  it  is 
liglit  to-morrow  morning.     Come." 

"  I  am  not  obliged  to  come  at  your  bidding, 
father,  and  I  would  rather  not !" 

Now  James,  the  cousin,  during  this  dialogue 
might  have  been  observed  to  grow  somewhat  rest- 
less and  even  impatient.  More  than  once  he  had 
parted  his  lips  to  speak,  but  second  thoughts  each 
time  held  him  back.  The  moment  had  come, 
however,  when  he  could  keep  silence  no  longer. 

"  Come,  madam !"  he  spoke  out,  "  this  farce 
with  your  father  has,  in  my  opinion,  gone  on  long 
enough.  Just  make  no  more  ado,  and  step  down- 
stairs with  us." 

She  gave  herself  an  intractable  little  twist,  and 
did  not  reply. 

"By  the  Lord  Harry,  Laura,  I  won't  stand  this !" 
he  said,  angrily.  "  Come,  get  on  your  things  be- 
fore I  come  and  compel  you.  There  is  a  kind  of 
compulsion  to  which  this  talk  is  child's  play. 
Come,  madam — instantly,  I  say  !" 

The  old  nobleman  turned  to  his  nephew  and 
said,  mildly  :  "  Leave  me  to  insist,  James.  It 
doesn't  become  you.  I  can  speak  to  her  sharply 
enough,  if  I  choose." 

James,  however,  did  not  heed  his  uncle,  and 
went  on  to  the  troublesome  young  woman  :  "  You 
say  )^ou  don't  want  to  come,  indeed!  A  pretty 
story  to  tell  me,  that!     Come,  march  out  of  the 


268        A  GROUP  OF  KOBLE  DAMES, 

room  at  once,  and  leave  that  hulking  fellow  for 
me  to  deal  with  afterwards.  Get  on  quickly — 
come!"  and  he  advanced  towards  her,  as  if  to  pull 
her  by  the  hand. 

"Nay,  nay,"  expostulated  Laura's  father,  much 
surprised  at  his  nephew's  sudden  demeanor.  "  You 
take  too  much  upon  yourself.     Leave  her  to  me." 

"I  won't  leave  her  to  you  any  longer!" 

"  You  have  no  right,  James,  to  address  either 
me  or  her  in  this  way  ;  so  just  hold  your  tongue. 
Come,  my  dear." 

"  I  have  every  right !"  insisted  James. 

"  How  do  you  make  that  out  ?" 

"  I  have  the  right  of  a  husband." 

"Whose  husband?" 

"  Hers." 

"What?" 

"  She's  my  wife." 

"James!" 

"  Well,  to  cut  a  long  story  short,  I  may  say  that 
she  secretly  married  me,  in  spite  of  your  lordship's 
prohibition,  about  three  months  ago.  And  I  must 
add  that,  though  she  cooled  down  rather  quickly, 
everything  went  on  smoothly  enough  between  us 
for  some  time,  in  spite  of  the  awkwardness  of 
meeting  only  by  stealth.  We  were  only  waiting 
for  a  convenient  moment  to  break  the  news  to  you 
when  this  idle  Adonis  turned  up,  and  after  poison- 
ing her  mind  against  me,  brought  her  into  this 
disgrace." 

Here  the  operatic  luminary,  who  had  sat  in  rather 


THE    HONORABLE    LAURA.  269 

an  abstracted  and  nerveless  attitude  till  the  cousin 
made  his  declaration,  fired  up  and  cried  :  "  I  de- 
clare before  Heaven  that  till  this  moment  I  never 
knew  she  was  a  wife !  I  found  her  in  her  father's 
house  an  unhappy  girl — unhappy,  as  I  believe,  be- 
cause of  the  loneliness  and  dreariness  of  tliat  estab- 
lishment, and  the  want  of  society,  and  for  nothing 
else  whatever.  What  this  statement  about  her 
being  your  wife  means  I  am  quite  at  a  loss  to  un- 
derstand.   Are  you  indeed  married  to  him,  Laura?  " 

Laura  nodded  from  within  her  tearful  hand- 
kerchief. "  It  was  because  of  my  anomalous 
position  in  being  privately  married  to  liira,"  she 
sobbed,  "  that  I  was  unhappy  at  home — and — and 
I  didn't  like  him  so  well  as  I  did  at  first — and  I 
wished  I  could  get  out  of  the  mess  I  was  in  !  And 
then  I  saw  you  a  few  times,  and  when  you  said, 
'  We'll  run  off,'  I  thought  I  saw  a  way  out  of  it 
all,  and  then  I  agreed  to  come  with  you-oo-oo !" 

"  Well !  well !  well !  And  is  this  true  ?"  mur- 
mured the  bewildered  old  nobleman,  staring  from 
James  to  Laura,  and  from  Laura  to  James,  as  if 
he  fancied  they  might  be  figments  of  the  imagi- 
nation. "Is  this,  then,  James,  the  secret  of  your 
kindness  to  your  old  uncle  in  helping  him  to  find 
his  daughter?  Good  heavens  !  what  further  depths 
of  duplicity  are  there  left  for  a  man  to  learn  !" 

"I  have  married  her,  Uncle  Quantock,  as  I  said," 
answered  James,  coolly.  *'  The  deed  is  done,  and 
can't  be  undone  by  talking  here." 

"Where  were  you  married?" 


270        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

"At  St.  Mary's,  Toneborough." 

"  When  ?" 

"On  September  29,  during  the  time  she  was 
visiting  there." 

"Who  married  you  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  One  of  the  curates — we  were 
quite  strangers  to  the  place.  So,  instead  of  my 
assisting  you  to  recover  her,  you  may  as  well  as- 
sist me." 

"  Never !  never !"  said  Lord  Quantock.  "  Mad- 
am, and  sir,  I  beg  to  tell  you  that  I  wash  my  hands 
of  the  whole  affair  !  If  you  are  man  and  wife,  as 
it  seems  you  are,  get  reconciled  as  best  you  may. 
I  have  no  more  to  say  or  do  with  either  of  you. 
I  leave  you,  Laura,  in  the  hands  of  your  husband, 
and  much  joy  may  you  bring  him  ;  though  the 
situation,  T  own,  is  not  encouraging." 

Saying  this,  the  indignant  speaker  pushed  back 
his  chair  against  the  table  with  such  force  that  the 
candlesticks  rocked  on  their  bases,  and  left  the 
room, 

Laura's  wet  eyes  roved  from  one  of  the  young 
men  to  the  other,  who  now  stood  glaring  face  to 
face,  and,  being  much  frightened  at  their  aspect, 
slipped  out  of  the  room  after  her  father.  Him, 
however,  she  could  hear  going  out  of  the  front 
door,  and,  not  knowing  where  to  take  shelter,  she 
crept  into  the  darkness  of  an  adjoining  bedroom, 
and  there  awaited  events  with  a  palpitating  heart. 

Meanwhile  the  two  men  remaining  in  the  sit- 
ting-room drew  nearer  to  each  other,  and  the 


THE    HONORABLE    LAURA.  271 

opera-singer  broke  the  silence  by  saying,  "How 
could  you  insult  me  in  the  way  you  did,  calling 
me  a  fellow,  and  accusing  me  of  poisoning  her 
mind  towards  you,  when  you  knew  very  well  I 
was  as  ignorant  of  your  relation  to  her  as  an  un- 
born babe  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  you  were  quite  ignorant;  I  can  be- 
lieve that  readily,"  sneered  Laura's  husband. 

"  I  here  call  Heaven  to  witness  that  I  never 
knew !" 

^^ Mecitativo — the  rhythm  excellent,  and  the  tone 
well  sustained.  Is  it  likely  that  any  man  could 
win  the  confidence  of  a  young  fool  her  age,  and 
not  get  that  out  of  her?  Preposterous!  Tell  it 
to  the  most  improved  new  pit-stalls." 

"  Captain  Northbrook,  your  insinuations  are  as 
despicable  as  yotir  wretched  person  !"  cried  the 
barytone,  losing  all  patience.  And  springing  for- 
ward he  slapped  the  captain  in  the  face  with  the 
palm  of  his  hand. 

Northbrook  flinched  but  slightly,  and  calmly 
using  his  handkerchief  to  learn  if  his  nose  was 
bleeding,  said,  "I  quite  expected  this  insult,  so 
I  came  prepared."  And  he  drew  forth  from  a 
black  valise  which  he  carried  in  his  band  a  small 
case  of  pistols. 

The  barytone  started  at  the  unexpected  sight, 
but,  recovering  from  his  surprise,  said,  "Very  well, 
as  you  will,"  though  perhaps  his  tone  showed  a 
slight  want  of  confidence. 

"  Now,"  continued  the  husband,  quite  confid- 


272  A   GROUP   OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

ingly,  "we  want  no  parade,  no  nonsense,  you  know. 
Therefore  we'll  dispense  with  seconds  ?" 

The  signor  slightly  nodded. 

"  Do  you  know  this  part  of  the  country  well  ?" 
Cousin  James  went  on,  in  the  same  cool  and  still 
manner.  "If  you  don't,  I  do.  Quite  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  rocks  out  there,  just  beyond  the  stream 
which  falls  over  them  to  the  shore,  is  a  smooth 
sandy  space,  not  so  much  shut  in  as  to  be  out  of 
the  moonlight;  and  the  way  down  to  it  from  this 
side  is  over  steps  cut  in  the  cliff ;  and  we  can 
find  our  way  down  without  trouble.  We — we 
two — will  find  our  way  down  ;  but  only  one  of  us 
will  find  his  way  up — you  understand  ?" 

"  Quite." 

"  Then  suppose  we  start ;  the  sooner  it  is  over 
the  better.  We  can  order  supper  before  we  go 
out — supper  for  two ;  for  though  we  are  three  at 
present — " 

"  Three  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  you  and  I  and  she — " 

"Oh  yes." 

"  — We  shall  be  only  two  by-and-by ;  so  that, 
as  I  say,  we  will  order  supper  for  two — for  the 
lady  and  a  gentleman.  Whichever  comes  back 
alive  will  tap  at  her  door,  and  call  her  in  to  share 
the  repast  with  him — she's  not  off  the  premises. 
But  we  must  not  alarm  her  now  ;  and,  above  all 
things,  we  must  not  let  the  inn  people  see  us  go 
out — it  would  look  so  odd  for  two  to  go  out  and 
only  one  come  in.     Ha    ha !" 


THE    HONORABLE    LAURA.  273 

"Ha!  ha!  exactly." 

"Are  you  ready  ?" 

"  Oh— quite." 

"  Then  I'll  lead  the  way." 

He  went  softly  to  the  door  and  down-stairs,  or- 
dering supper  to  be  ready  in  an  hour,  as  he  had 
said  ;  then  making  a  feint  of  returning  to  the 
room  again,  he  beckoned  to  the  singer,  and  to- 
gether they  slipped  out  of  the  house  by  a  side 
door. 

The  sky  was  now  quite  clear,  and  the  wheel- 
marks  of  the  brougham  which  had  borne  away 
Laura's  father.  Lord  Quantock,  remained  distinct- 
ly visible.  Soon  the  verge  of  the  down  was  reach- 
ed, the  captain  leading  the  way,  and  the  barytone 
following  silently,  casting  furtive  glances  at  his 
companion  and  beyond  him  at  the  scene  ahead. 
In  due  course  they  arrived  at  the  chasm  in  the 
cliff  which  formed  the  water-fall.  The  outlook 
here  was  wild  and  picturesque  in  the  extr'^me, 
and  fully  justified  the  many  praises,  paintings, 
and  photographic  views  to  which  the  spot  had 
given  birth.  What  in  summer  was  charmingly 
green  and  gray,  was  now  rendered  weird  and  fan- 
tastic by  the  snow. 

From  their  feet  the  cascade  plunged  downward 
almost  vertically  to  a  depth  of  eighty  or  a  hun- 
dred feet  before  finally  losing  itself  in  the  sand, 
and  though  the  stream  was  but  small,  its  impact 
upon  jutting  rocks  in  its  descent  divided  it  into  a 
18 


274        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

hundred  spirts  and  splashes  that  sent  a  mist  into 
the  upper  air,  A  few  marginal  drippings  had 
been  frozen  into  icicles,  but  the  centre  flowed  on 
unimpeded. 

The  operatic  artist  looked  down  as  he  halted, 
but  his  thoughts  were  plainly  not  of  the  beauty 
of  the  scene.  His  companion  with  the  pistols  was 
immediately  in  front  of  him,  and  there  was  no 
hand-rail  on  the  side  of  the  path  towards  the  chasm. 
Obeying  a  quick  impulse,  he  stretched  out  his 
arm,  and  with  a  superhuman  thrust  sent  Laura's 
husband  reeling  over.  A  whirling  human  shape, 
diminishing  downward  in  the  moon's  raj'^s  farther 
and  farther  towards  invisibility,  a  smack,  smack 
upon  the  projecting  ledges  of  rock — at  first  loud- 
er and  heavier  than  that  of  the  brook,  and  then 
scarcely  to  be  distinguished  from  it — then  a  cessa- 
tion, then  the  splashing  of  the  stream  as  before, 
and  the  accompanying  murmur  of  the  sea,  were 
all  the  incidents  that  disturbed  the  customary 
flow  of  the  little  water-fall. 

The  singer  waited  in  a  fixed  attitude  for  a  few 
minutes,  then  turning,  he  rapidly  retraced  his  steps 
over  the  intervening  upland  towards  the  road,  and 
in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  was  at  ^the  door 
of  the  hotel.  Slipping  quietly  in  as  the  clock 
struck  ten,  he  said  to  the  landlord,  over  the  bar 
hatchway  : 

"  The  bill  as  soon  as  you  can  let  me  have  it,  in- 
cluding charges  for  the  supper  that  was  ordered, 
though  we  cannot  stay  to  eat  it,  I  am  sorry  to 


THE    HONORABLK    LAURA.  2V5 

say."  He  added,  with  forced  gayety,  "  The  lady's 
father  and  cousin  have  thought  better  of  inter- 
cepting the  marriage,  and  after  quarrelling  with 
each  other  have  gone  home  independently." 

"Well  done,  sir!"  said  the  landlord,  who  still 
sided  with  this  customer  in  preference  to  those 
who  had  given  trouble  and  barely  paid  for  baiting 
the  horses.  " '  Love  will  find  out  the  way !'  as  the 
saying  is.     Wish  you  joy,  sir  !" 

Siguor  Smithozzi  went  up-stairs,  and  on  entering 
the  sitting-room  found  that  Laura  had  crept  out 
from  the  dark  adjoining  chamber  in  his  absence. 
She  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  red  from  weeping, 
and  with  symptoms  of  alarm. 

"  What  is  it  ? — where  is  he  ?"  she  said,  appre- 
heusiveh'. 

"  Captain  Northbrook  has  gone  back.  He  says 
he  will  have  no  more  to  do  with  you." 

"  And  I  am  quite  abandoned  by  them  ! — and 
they'll  forget  me,  and  nobody  care  about  me  any 
morifi  !"     She  began  to  cry  afresh. 

"But  it  is  the  luckiest  thing  that  could  have 
happened.  All  is  just  as  it  was  before  they  came 
disturbing  us.  But,  Laura,  you  ought  to  have 
told  me  about  that  private  marriage,  though  it  is 
all  the  same  now  ;  it  will  be  dissolved,  of  course. 
You  are  a  wid — virtually  a  widow." 

"It  is  no  use  to  reproach  me  for  what  is  past. 
What  am  I  to  do  now  ?" 

"  We  go  at  once  to  Cliff-Martin.  The  horse  has 
rested  thoroughly  these  last  three  hours,  and  ho 


276  A   GEOUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

will  have  no  difficulty  in  doing  an  additional  half- 
dozen  miles.  We  shall  be  there  before  twelve, 
and  there  are  late  taverns  in  the  place,  no  doubt. 
There  we'll  sell  both  horse  and  carriage  to-mor- 
row morning,  and  go  by  the  coach  to  Downstaple. 
Once  in  the  train  we  are  safe." 

"  I  agree  to  anything,"  she  said,  listlessly. 

In  about  ten  minutes  the  horse  was  put  in,  the 
bill  paid,  the  lady's  dried  wraps  put  round  her,  and 
the  journey  resumed. 

When  about  a  mile  on  their  way,  they  saw  a 
glimmering  light  in  advance  of  them.  "I  won- 
der what  that  is  ?"  said  the  barytone,  whose  man- 
ner had  latterly  become  nervous,  every  sound  and 
sight  causing  him  to  turn  his  head. 

"  It  is  only  a  turnpike,"  said  she.  "  That  light 
is  the  lamp  kept  burning  over  the  door." 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  dearest.  How  stupid  I 
am!" 

On  reaching  the  gate  they  perceived  that  a  man 
on  foot  had  approached  it,  apparently  by  some 
more  direct  path  than  the  roadway  they  pursued, 
and  was,  at  the  moment  they  drew  up,  standing 
in  conversation  with  the  gate-keeper. 

"  It  is  quite  impossible  that  he  could  fall  over 
the  cliff  by  accident  or  the  will  of  God  on  such  a 
light  night  as  this,"  the  pedestrian  was  saying. 
"  These  two  children  I  tell  you  of  saw  two  men 
go  along  the  path  towards  the  water-fall,  and  ten 
minutes  later  only  one  of  'em  came  back,  walking 
fast,  like  a  man  who  wanted  to  get  out  of  the  way 


THE    HONORABLE   LAURA.  277 

because  he  had  done  something  queer.  There  is 
no  manner  of  doubt  that  he  pushed  the  other  man 
over,  and,  mark  me,  it  will  soon  cause  a  hue-and- 
cry  for  that  man." 

The  candle  shone  in  the  face  of  the  signer  and 
showed  that  there  had  arisen  upon  it  a  film  of 
ghastliness.  Laura,  glancing  towards  him  for  a 
few  moments,  observed  it,  till,  the  gate-keeper 
having  mechanically  swung  open  the  gate,  her 
companion  drove  through,  and  they  were  soon 
again  enveloped  in  the  white  silence. 

Her  conductor  had  said  to  Laura,  just  before, 
that  he  meant  to  inquire  the  way  at  this  turnpike ; 
but  he  had  certainly  not  done  so. 

As  soon  as  they  had  gone  a  little  farther  the 
omission,  intentional  or  not,  began  to  cause  them 
some  trouble.  Beyond  the  secluded  district  which 
they  now  traversed  ran  the  more  frequented  road, 
where  progress  would  be  easy,  the  snow  being 
probably  already  beaten  there  to  some  extent  by 
traffic  ;  but  they  had  not  yet  reached  it,  and,  hav- 
ing no  one  to  guide  them,  their  journey  began 
to  appear  less  feasible  than  it  had  done  before 
starting.  When  the  little  lane  which  ,they  had 
entered  ascended  another  hill,  and  seemed  to  wind 
round  in  a  direction  contrary  to  the  expected  route 
to  Cliff-Martin,  the  question  grew  serious.  Ever 
since  overhearing  the  conversation  at  the  turn- 
pike, Laura  had  maintained  a  perfect  silence,  and 
had  even  shrunk  somewhat  away  from  the  side  of 
her  lover. 


278        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

"  Why  don't  you  talk,  Laura,"  he  said,  with 
forced  buoyancy,  "and  suggest  the  way  we  should 
go?" 

"  Oh  yes,  I  will,"  she  responded,  a  curious  fear- 
fulness  being  audible  in  her  voice. 

After  this  she  uttered  a  few  occasional  sentences 
which  seemed  to  persuade  him  that  she  suspected 
nothing.  At  last  he  drew  rein,  and  the  weary  horse 
stood  still. 

"  We  are  in  a  fix,"  he  said. 

She  answered,  eagerly :  "  I'll  hold  the  reins  while 
you  run  forward  to  the  top  of  the  ridge,  and  see 
if  the  road  takes  a  favorable  turn  beyond.  It 
would  give  the  horse  a  few  minutes'  rest,  and  if 
you  find  out  no  change  in  the  direction,  we  will 
retrace  this  lane,  and  take  the  other  turning." 

The  expedient  seemed  a  good  one  in  the  cir- 
cumstances, especially  when  recommended  by  the 
singular  eagerness  of  her  voice  ;  and  placing  the 
reins  in  her  hands — a  quite  unnecessary  precau- 
tion, considering  the  state  of  their  hack  —  he 
stepped  out  and  went  forward  through  the  snow 
till  she  could  see  no  more  of  him. 

No  sooner  was  he  gone  than  Laura,  with  a  ra- 
pidity which  contrasted  strangely  with  her  previ- 
ous stillness,  made  fast  the  reins  to  the  corner  of 
the  phaeton,  and,  slipping  out  on  the  opposite  side, 
ran  back  with  all  her  might  down  the  hill,  till, 
coming  to  an  opening  in  the  fence,  she  scrambled 
through  it,  and  plunged  into  the  copse  which 
bordered  this  portion  of  the  lane.    Here  she  stood 


THE    HONORABLE    LAURA.  279 

in  hiding  under  one  of  the  large  bushes,  clinging 
BO  closely  to  its  umbrage  as  to  seem  but  a  portion 
of  its  mass,  and  listening  intently  for  the  faintest 
sound  of  pursuit.  But  nothing  disturbed  the 
stillness  save  the  occasional  slip})ing  of  gathered 
snow  from  the  boughs,  or  the  rustle  of  some  wild 
animal  over  the  crisp,  flake-bespattered  herbage. 
At  length,  apparently  convinced  that  her  former 
companion  was  either  unable  to  find  her,  or  not 
anxious  to  do  so,  in  the  present  strange  state  of 
affairs,  she  crept  out  from  the  bushes,  and  in  less 
than  an  hour  found  herself  again  approaching  the 
door  of  the  Prospect  Hotel. 

As  she  drew  near,  Laura  could  see  that,  far  from 
being  wrapped  in  darkness,  as  she  might  have  ex- 
pected, there  were  ample  signs  that  all  the  tenants 
were  on  the  alert,  lights  moving  about  the  open 
space  in  front.  Satisfaction  was  expressed  in  her 
face  when  she  discerned  that  no  reappearance  of 
her  barytone  and  his  pony-carriage  was  causing 
this  sensation ;  but  it  speedily  gave  way  to  grief 
and  dismay  when  she  saw  by  the  lights  the  form 
of  a  man  borne  on  a  stretcher  by  two  others  into 
the  porch  of  the  hotel. 

"I  have  caused  all  this,"  she  murmured, between 
her  quivering  lips.  "  He  has  murdered  him  !" 
Running  forward  to  the  door,  she  hastily  asked  of 
the  first  person  she  met  if  the  man  on  the  stretcher 
was  dead. 

"  No,  miss,"  said  the  laborer  addressed,  eying 
her  up  and  down   as   an   unexpected  apparition. 


280        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

"  He  is  still  alive,  they  say,  but  not  sensible.  He 
either  fell  or  was  pushed  over  the  water-fall ;  'tis 
thoughted  he  was  pushed.  He  is  the  gentleman 
who  came  here  just  now  with  the  old  lord,  and  went 
out  afterward  (as  is  thoughted)  with  a  stranger 
who  had  come  a  little  earlier.  Anyhow,  that's  as 
I  had  it." 

Laura  entered  the  house,  and  acknowledging 
without  the  least  reserve  that  she  was  the  injured 
man's  wife,  had  soon  installed  herself  as  head-nurse 
by  the  bed  on  which  he  lay.  When  the  two  sur- 
geons who  had  been  sent  for  arrived,  she  learned 
from  them  that  his  wounds  were  so  severe  as  to 
leave  but  a  slender  hope  of  recovery,  it  being  lit- 
tle short  of  miraculous  that  he  was  not  killed  on 
the  spot,  which  his  enemy  had  evidently  reckoned 
to  be  the  case.  She  knew  who  that  enemy  was,  and 
shuddered. 

Laura  watched  all  night,  but  her  husband  knew 
nothing  of  her  presence.  During  the  next  day 
he  slightly  recognized  hei',  and  in  the  evening  was 
able  to  speak.  He  informed  the  surgeons  that,  as 
was  surmised,  he  had  been  pushed  over  the  cas- 
cade by  Signor  Smithozzi  ;  but  he  communicated 
nothing  to  her  who  nursed  him,  not  even  replying 
to  her  remarks ;  he  nodded  courteously  at  any  act 
of  attention  she  rendered,  and  that  was  all. 

In  a  day  or  two  it  was  declared  that  everything 
favored  his  recovery,  notwithstanding  the  severity 
of  his  injuries.  Full  search  was  made  for  Smith- 
ozzi, but  as  yet  there  was  no  intelligence  of  his 


THE    HONORABLE   LAUEA,  281 

whereabouts,  though  the  repentant  Laura  commu- 
nicated all  she  knew.  As  far  as  could  be  judged, 
he  had  come  back  to  the  carriage  after  searching 
out  the  way,  and  finding  the  young  lady  missing, 
had  looked  about  for  her  till  he  was  tired  ;  then 
had  driven  on  to  Cliff-Martin,  sold  the  horse  and 
carriage  next  morning,  and  disappeared,  probably 
by  one  of  the  departing  coaches  which  ran  thence 
to  the  nearest  station,  the  only  difference  from 
his  original  programme  being  that  he  had  gone 
alone. 

During  the  days  and  weeks  of  that  long  and 
tedious  recovery,  Laura  watched  bj'  her  husband's 
bedside  with  a  zeal  and  assiduity  which  would 
have  considerably  extenuated  any  fault  save  one 
of  such  magnitude  as  hers.  That  her  husband 
did  not  forgive  her  was  soon  obvious.  Nothing 
that  she  could  do  in  the  way  of  smoothing  pil- 
lows, casing  his  position,  shifting  bandages,  or  ad- 
ministering draughts,  could  win  from  him  more 
than  a  few  measured  words  of  thankfulness,  such 
as  he  would  probably  have  uttered  to  any  other 
woman  on  earth  Avho  had  performed  these  partic- 
ular services  for  him. 

"Dear,  dear  James,"  she  said,  one  day,  bending 
her  face  upon  the  bed  in  an  excess  of  emotion. 
"  How  you  have  suffered  !  It  has  been  too  cruel. 
I  am  more  glad  you  are  getting  better  than  I  can 
say.  I  have  prayed  for  it  —  and  I  am  sorry  for 
what  I  have  done  ;   T  am  innocent  of  the  worst, 


282  A   GROUP   OF  NOBLE   DAMES. 

and — I  hope  you  will  not  think  me  so  very  bad, 
James !" 

"  Oh  no.  On  the  contrary,  I  shall  think  you 
very  good — as  a  nurse,"  he  answered,  the  caustic 
severity  of  his  tone  being  apparent  through  its 
weakness. 

Laura  let  fall  two  or  three  silent  tears,  and  said 
no  more  that  day. 

Somehow  or  other  Signor  Smithozzi  seemed  to 
be  making  good  his  escape.  It  transpired  that  he 
had  not  taken  a  passage  in  either  of  the  suspected 
coaches,  though  he  had  certainly  got  out  of  the 
county ;  altogether,  the  chance  of  finding  him  was 
problematical. 

Not  only  did  Captain  Northbrook  survive  his 
injuries,  but  it  soon  appeared  that  in  the  course  of 
a  few  weeks  he  would  find  himself  little  if  any 
the  worse  for  the  catastrophe.  It  could  also  be 
seen  that  Laura,  while  secretly  hoping  for  her  hus- 
band's forgiveness  for  a  piece  of  folly  of  which 
she  saw  the  enormity  more  clearly  every  day,  was 
in  great  doubt  as  to  what  her  future  relations 
with  him  would  be.  Moreover,  to  add  to  the  com- 
plication, while  she,  as  a  runaway  wife,  was  un- 
forgiven  by  her  husband,  she  and  her  husband,  as 
a  runaway  couple,  were  unforgiven  by  her  father, 
who  had  never  once  communicated  with  either  of 
them  since  his  departure  from  the  inn.  But  her 
immediate  anxiety  was  to  win  the  pardon  of  her 
husband,  who  possibly  might  be  bearing  in  mind, 
as  he  lay  upon  his  couch,  the  familiar  words  of 


THE    HONORABLE   LAURA.  283 

Brabantio,  "  She  has  deceived  her  father,  and  may 
thee." 

Matters  -went  on  thus  till  Captain  Northbrook 
was  able  to  walk  about.  He  then  removed  with 
his  wife  to  quiet  apartments  on  the  south  coast, 
and  here  his  recovery  was  rapid.  Walking  up 
the  cliffs  one  day,  supporting  him  by  her  arm  as 
usual,  she  said  to  him,  simply,  "James,  if  I  go  on 
as  I  am  going  now,  and  always  attend  to  your 
smallest  want,  and  never  think  of  anything  but 
devotion  to  you,  will  you — try  to  like  me  a  little?" 

"It  is  a  thing  I  must  carefully  consider,"  he 
said,  with  the  same  gloomy  dryness  that  charac- 
terized all  his  words  to  her  now.  "  When  I  have 
considered,  I  will  tell  you." 

He  did  not  tell  her  that  evening,  though  she 
lingered  long  at  her  routine  work  of  making  his 
bedroom  comfortable,  putting  the  light  so  that 
it  would  not  shine  into  his  eyes,  seeing  him  fall 
asleep,  and  then  retiring  noiselessly  to  her  own 
chamber.  When  they  met  in  the  morning  at 
breakfast,  and  she  had  asked  him  as  usual  how  he 
had  passed  the  night,  she  added  timidly,  in  the  si- 
lence which  followed  his  rej^ly,  "Have  you  con- 
sidered ?" 

"  No,  I  have  not  considered  sufficiently  to  give 
you  an  answer." 

Laura  sighed,  but  to  no  purpose ;  and  the  day 
wore  on  with  intense  heaviness  to  her,  and  the 
customary  modicum  of  strength  gained  to  him. 

The  next  morning  she  put  the  same  question, 


284  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE   DAMES. 

and  looked  up  despairingly  in  his  face,  as  though 
her  whole  life  hung  upon  his  reply. 

"  Yes,  I  have  considered,"  he  said. 

«Ah!" 

"  We  must  part." 

"  Oh,  James !" 

"  I  cannot  forgive  you  ;  no  man  would.  Enough 
is  settled  upon  you  to  keep  you  in  comfort,  what- 
ever your  father  may  do.  I  shall  sell  out,  and 
disappear  from  this  hemisphere." 

"  You  have  absolutely  decided?"  she  asked,  mis- 
erably.   "  I  have  nobody  now  to  c-c-care  for — " 

"  I  have  absolutely  decided,"  he  shortly  return- 
ed. "  We  had  better  part  here.  You  will  go  back 
to  your  father.  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should 
accompany  you,  since  my  presence  would  only 
stand  in  the  way  of  the  forgiveness  he  will  prob- 
ably grant  you  if  you  appear  before  him  alone. 
We  will  say  farewell  to  each  other  in  three  days 
from  this  time.  I  have  calculated  on  being  ready 
to  go  on  that  day." 

Bowed  down  with  trouble,  she  withdrew  to  her 
room,  and  the  three  days  were  passed  by  her  hus- 
band in  writing  letters  and  attending  to  other 
business  matters,  saying  hardly  a  word  to  her  the 
while.  The  morning  of  departure  came  ;  but  be- 
fore the  horses  had  been  put  in  to  take  the  severed 
twain  in  different  directions,  out  of  sight  of  each 
other,  possibly  forever,  the  postman  arrived  with 
the  morning  letters. 

There  was  one  for  the  captain ;  none  for  her — 


THE    HONORABLE    LAUKA.  285 

there  "were  never  any  for  her.  However,  on  this 
occasion  something  was  enclosed  for  her  in  his, 
which  he  handed  her.  She  read  it  and  looked  up 
helpless. 

"  My  dear  father — is  dead  !"  she  said.  In  a  few 
moments  she  added,  in  a  whisper, "  I  must  go  to 
the  Manor  to  bury  him.  .  .  .  Will  you  go  with  me, 
James?" 

He  musingly  looked  out  of  the  window.  "I 
suppose  it  is  an  awkward  and  melancholy  under- 
taking for  a  woman  alone,"  he  said,  coldly.  "  Well, 
well — my  poor  uncle  !  —  yes,  I'll  go  with  you,  and 
see  you  through  the  business." 

So  they  went  off  together  instead  of  asunder,  as 
planned.  It  is  unnecessary  to  record  the  details 
of  the  journey,  or  of  the  sad  week  which  followed 
it  at  her  father's  house.  Lord  Quantock's  scat 
was  a  fine  old  mansion  standing  in  its  own  park, 
and  there  were  plenty  of  opportunities  for  hus- 
band and  wife  either  to  avoid  each  other,  or  to  get 
reconciled  if  they  were  so  minded,  which  one  of 
them  was  at  least.  Captain  Northbrook  was  not 
present  at  the  reading  of  the  will.  She  came  to 
him  afterwards,  and  found  him  packing  up  his  pa- 
pers, intending  to  start  next  morning,  now  that 
he  had  seen  her  through  the  turmoil  occasioned 
by  her  father's  death. 

"He  has  left  me  everything  that  he  could  !"  she 
said  to  her  husband.  "  James,  will  you  forgive 
me  now,  and  stay  ?" 

"  I  cannot  stay." 


286        A  GROUP  OF  NOBLE  DAMES. 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  I  cannot  stay,"  he  repeated. 

"But  why?" 

"  I  don't  like  you." 

He  acted  up  to  his  word.  When  she  came 
down-stairs  the  next  morning  she  was  told  that 
he  had  gone. 

Laura  bore  her  double  bereavement  as  best  she 
could.  The  vast  mansion  in  which  she  had 
hitherto  lived,  with  all  its  historic  contents,  had 
gone  to  her  father's  successor  in  the  title ;  but  her 
own  was  no  unhandsome  one.  Around  lay  the 
undulating  park,  studded  with  trees  a  dozen  times 
her  own  age ;  beyond  it,  the  wood ;  beyond  the 
wood,  the  farms.  All  this  fair  and  quiet  scene 
was  hers.  She  nevertheless  remained  a  lonely, 
repentant,  depressed  being,  who  would  have  given 
the  greater  part  of  everything  she  possessed  to  in- 
sure the  presence  and  affection  of  that  husband 
whose  very  austerity  and  phlegm — qualities  'that 
had  formerly  led  to  the  alienation  between  them 
— seemed  now  to  be  adorable  features  in  his  char- 
acter. 

She  hojDcd  and  hoped  again,  but  all  to  no  pur- 
pose. Captain  Northbrook  did  not  alter  his  mind 
and  return.  He  was  quite  a  different  sort  of  man 
from  one  who  altered  his  mind ;  that  she  was  at 
last  despairingly  forced  to  admit.  And  then  she 
left  off  hoping,  and  settled  down  to  a  mechanical 
routine  of  existence  which  in  some  measure  dulled 


THE    HONORABLE    LAURA.  287 

her  grief,  but  at  the  expense  of  all  her  natural 
animation  and  the  sprightly  wilfulness  which  had 
once  charmed  those  who  knew  her,  though  it  was 
perhaps  all  the  while  a  factor  in  the  production 
of  her  unhappiness. 

To  say  that  her  beauty  quite  departed  as  the 
years  rolled  on  would  be  to  overstate  the  truth. 
Time  is  not  a  merciful  master,  as  we  all  know, 
and  he  was  not  likely  to  act  exceptionally  in  the 
case  of  a  woman  who  had  mental  troubles  to  bear 
in  addition  to  the  ordinary  weight  of  years.  Be 
this  as  it  may,  eleven  other  winters  came  and 
went,  and  Laura  Northbrook  remained  the  lonely 
mistress  of  house  and  lands  without  once  hear- 
ing of  her  husband.  Every  probability  seemed  to 
favor  the  assumption  that  he  had  died  in  some  for- 
eign land;  and  offers  for  her  hand  were  not  few 
as  the  probability  verged  on  certainty  with  the 
long  lapse  of  time.  But  the  idea  of  remarriage 
seemed  never  to  have  entered  her  head  for  a  mo- 
ment. Whether  she  continued  to  hope  even  now 
for  his  return  could  not  be  distinctly  ascertained  ; 
at  all  events,  she  lived  a  life  unmodified  in  the 
slightest  degree  from  that  of  the  first  six  months 
of  his  absence. 

This  twelfth  year  of  Laura's  loneliness  and  the 
thirtieth  of  her  life  drew  on  apace,  and  tlie  season 
approached  that  liad  seen  the  unhappy  adventure 
for  which  she  so  long  suffered.  Christmas  prom- 
ised to  be  rather  wet  than  cold,  and  the  trees  on 
the  outskirts  of  Laura's  estate  dripped  monoto- 


288  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

nously  from  day  to  day  upon  the  turnpike-road 
which  bordered  them.  On  an  afternoon  in  this 
week,  between  three  and  four  o'clock,  a  hired  fly 
might  have  been  seen  driving  along  the  highway 
at  this  point,  and  on  reaching  the  top  of  the  hill 
it  stopped.  A  gentleman  of  middle  age  alighted 
from  the  vehicle. 

"  You  need  drive  no  farther,"  he  said  to  the 
coachman.  "  The  rain  seems  to  have  nearly  ceased, 
I'll  stroll  a  little  way,  and  return  on  foot  to  the 
inn  by  dinner-time." 

The  flyman  touched  his  hat,  turned  the  horse, 
and  drove  back  as  directed.  When  he  was  out 
of  sight,  the  gentleman  walked  on,  but  he  had  not 
gone  far  before  the  rain  again  came  down  pitiless- 
ly, though  of  this  the  pedestrian  took  little  heed, 
going  leisurely  onward  till  he  reached  Laura's  park 
gate,  which  he  passed  through.  The  clouds  were 
thick  and  the  days  were  short,  so  that  by  the  time 
he  stood  in  front  of  the  mansion  it  was  dark.  In 
addition  to  this  his  appearance,  which  on  alight- 
ing from  the  carriage  had  been  untarnished,  par- 
took now  of  the  character  of  a  drenched  wayfarer 
not  too  well  blessed  with  this  world's  goods.  He 
halted  for  no  more  than  a  moment  at  the  front 
entrance,  and  going  round  to  the  servants'  quarter, 
as  if  he  had  a  preconceived  purpose  in  so  doing, 
there  rang  the  bell.  When  a  page  came  to  him 
he  inquired  if  they  would  kindly  allow  him  to  dry 
himself  by  the  kitchen  fire. 

The  page  retired,  and,  after  a  murmured  collo' 


THE    HONORABLE   LAURA.  289 

quy,  returned  with  the  cook,  who  informed  the 
wet  and  muddy  man  that  though  it  was  not  her 
custom  to  admit  strangers,  she  should  have  no 
particular  objection  to  his  drying  himself,  the 
night  being  so  damp  and  gloomy.  Therefore  the 
wayfarer  entered  and  sat  down  by  the  fire. 

"  The  owner  of  this  house  is  a  very  rich  gen- 
tleman, no  doubt?"  he  asked,  as  he  watched  the 
meat  turning  on  the  spit. 

"  'Tis  not  a  gentleman,  but  a  lady,"  said  the 
cook. 

"A  widow,  I  presume?" 

"A  sort  of  widow.  Poor  soul,  her  husband  is 
gone  abroad,  and  has  never  been  heard  of  for 
many  years." 

"  She  sees  plenty  of  company,  no  doubt,  to 
make  up  for  his  absence?" 

"  No,  indeed — hardly  a  soul.  Service  here  is  as 
bad  as  being  in  a  nunnery." 

In  short,  the  wayfarer,  who  had  at  first  been  so 
coldly  received,  contrived  by  his  frank  and  en- 
gaging manner  to  draw  the  ladies  of  the  kitchen 
into  a  most  confidential  conversation,  in  which 
Laura's  history  was  minutely  detailed,  from  the 
day  of  her  husband's  departure  to  the  present. 
The  salient  feature  in  all  their  discourse  was  her 
unflagging  devotion  to  his  memory. 

Having  apparently  learned  all  that  he  wanted 

to  know — among  other  things  that  she  was  at  this 

moment,  as  always,  alone — the  traveller  said  he 

was  quite  dry;  and  thanking  the  servants  for  their 

19 


290  A   GROUP    OF   NOBLE    DAMES. 

kindness,  departed  as  he  had  come.  On  emerging 
into  the  darkness  he  did  not,  however,  go  down 
the  avenue  by  which  he  had  arrived.  He  simply 
walked  round  to  the  front  door.  There  he  rang, 
and  the  door  was  opened  to  him  by  a  man-servant 
whom  he  had  not  seen  during  his  sojourn  at  the 
other  end  of  the  house. 

In  answer  to  the  servant's  inquiry  for  his  name, 
he  said,  ceremoniously,  "  Will  you  tell  The  Hon- 
orable Mrs.  Northbrook  that  the  man  she  nursed 
many  years  ago,  after  a  frightful  accident,  has 
called  to  thank  her?" 

The  footman  retreated,  and  it  was  rather  a  long 
time  before  any  further  signs  of  attention  were 
apparent.  Then  he  was  shown  into  the  drawing- 
room,  and  the  door  closed  behind  him. 

On  the  couch  was  Laura,  trembling  and  pale. 
She  parted  her  lips  and  held  out  her  hands  to 
him,  but  could  not  speak.  But  he  did  not  require 
speech,  and  in  a  moment  they  were  in  each  oth- 
er's arms. 

Strange  news  circulated  through  that  mansion 
and  the  neighboring  town  on  the  next  and  follow- 
ing days.  But  the  world  has  a  way  of  getting 
used  to  things,  and  the  intelligence  of  the  return 
of  The  Honorable  Mrs.  Northbrook's  long-absent 
husband  was  soon  received  with  comparative  calm. 

A  few  days  more  brought  Christmas,  and  the 
forlorn  home  of  Laura  Northbrook  blazed  from 
basement  to  attic  with  light  and  cheerfulness. 
Not  that  the  house  was  overcrowded  with  visit- 


THE    HONORABLE    LAUKA.  291 

ors,  but  many  were  present,  and  the  apathy  of  a 
dozen  years  came  at  length  to  an  end.  The  ani- 
mation which  set  in  thus  at  the  close  of  the  old 
year  did  not  diminish  on  the  arrival  of  the  new ; 
and  by  the  time  its  twelve  months  had  likewise 
run  the  course  of  its  predecessors,  a  son  had  been 
added  to  the  dwindled  line  of  the  Northbrook 
family. 


At  the  conclusion  of  this  narrative  the  Spark 
was  thanked,  with  a  manner  of  some  surprise,  for 
nobody  had  credited  him  with  a  taste  for  tale- 
telling.  Though  it  had  been  resolved  that  this 
story  should  be  the  last,  a  few  of  the  weather- 
bound listeners  were  for  sitting  on  into  the  small 
hours  over  their  pipes  and  glasses,  and  raking  up 
yet  more  episodes  of  family  history.  But  the 
majority  murmured  reasons  for  soon  getting  to 
their  lodgings. 

It  was  quite  dark  without,  except  in  the  imme- 
diate neighborhood  of  the  feeble  street-lamps,  and 
before  a  few  shop-windows  which  had  been  hard- 
ily kept  open  in  spite  of  the  obvious  unlikelihood 
of  any  chance  customer  traversing  the  muddy 
thoroughfares  at  that  hour. 

By  one,  by  two,  and  by  three  the  benighted 
members  of  the  Field  Club  rose  from  their  seats, 
shook  hands,  made  appointments,  and  dropped 
away  to  their  respective  quarters,  free  or  hired, 
hoping  for  a  fair  morrow.     It  would  probably  be 


292  A    GROUP    OF    NOBLE    DAMES. 

not  until  the  next  summer  meeting,  months  away 
in  the  future,  that  the  easy  intercourse  which  now 
existed  between  them  all  would  repeat  itself.  The 
crimson  maltster,  for  instance,  knew  that  on  the 
following  market-day  his  friends  the  president, 
the  rural  dean,  and  the  bookworm  would  pass  him 
in  the  street,  if  they  met  him,  with  the  barest 
nod  of  civility,  the  president  and  the  colonel  for 
social  reasons,  the  bookworm  for  intellectual  rea- 
sons, and  the  rural  dean  for  moral  ones,  the  lat- 
ter being  a  stanch  teetotaler,  dead  against  John 
Barleycorn,  The  sentimental  member  knew  that 
when,  on  his  rambles,  he  met  his  friend  the  book- 
worm with  a  pocket-copy  of  something  or  other 
under  his  nose,  the  latter  would  not  love  his  com- 
panionship as  he  had  done  to-day ;  and  the  presi- 
dent, the  aristocrat,  and  the  farmer  knew  that  af- 
fairs political,  sporting,  domestic,  or  agricultural 
would  exclude  for  a  long  time  all  rumination  on 
the  characters  of  dames  gone  to  dust  for  scores 
of  years,  however  beautiful  and  noble  they  may 
have  been  in  their  day. 

The  last  member  at  length  departed,  the  at- 
tendant at  the  museum  lowered  the  fire,  the  cura- 
tor locked  up  the  rooms,  and  soon  there  was  only 
a  single  pirouetting  flame  on  the  top  of  a  single 
coal  to  make  the  bones  of  the  icthyosaurus  seem 
to  leap,  the  stuffed  birds  to  wink,  and  to  draw  a 
smile  from  the  varnished  skulls  of  Vespasian's 
Boldierv. 


\/'7  ^  8  « 


'^Al^ 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 

0'      '*   '^FUcRL 


€ 


JAN  24l92i 


MAR  1 1 1957 
DEC  1  5  19B1 

7t0 


n 


BEC 


APR  1  i^  1982 

REC'D  LD-URt 

JUN  2  0  m< 


''RJT)  tD  ItfR* 
D  CL  JAN     5  'S?*^ 


FormL-9-35m-8,'28 


/-     /' 


flii 


4  t^^p 
APR     7  Wdu 


FEBi 


2  /i 


^(j 


Illlllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllliiiiliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniii 
AA    000  386  452    7 


LOS  ANGELES 
liBRAJRY 


